


Cheers, Darlin'

by SilverLining2k6



Category: Veronica Mars - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Gen, Other, Sad Logan, Self-Reflection, but maybe enough snark to make up for it?, flangst, groom envy, trust me - i've got this, wedding angst, without his pillow of comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-05
Updated: 2017-01-20
Packaged: 2018-08-29 03:28:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 33,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8473684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilverLining2k6/pseuds/SilverLining2k6
Summary: Even the experts agree, a boy needs closure.Post-series.  Current day.  Not movie-compliant, but borrows some movie canon elements (aviator!Logan, Carrie is dead)





	1. What am I, Darlin'?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ghostcat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ghostcat/gifts).



> Chapter 1/2. 
> 
> I actually started writing this for 2015's AU-themed Fandom Festivus. Clearly, I missed the deadline. Okay then, I'll just shoot for 2016's trope-themed Festivus. There's plenty of tropes here, ALL the tropes. Oops. Another deadline missed. But only by a month, this time. Chapter 2 to follow very soon.
> 
> Thank you Ghostcat, for giving us Fanworks Festivus and all the effort you put into getting people to create. I didn't quite make the 500K minimum, but a 15K first chapter isn't too shabby.

**_...Here's to you, and your lover boy._ **

 

"You got _married_?" 

Lieutenant Carly "Cayenne" Cutler's sharp accusation serves the dual-purpose of startling Logan out of his trance, and raising his hackles.

She stands right behind his chair, expression pinched and smelling of clinical-strength deodorant.  Reaching over his shoulder, she tugs at the photo in his hand, and he exerts a moment of stubborn resistance before letting go. 

Since he can’t stand, Logan busies himself rearranging the shit-ton of paperwork due by tomorrow morning's debriefing.  A manila folder slices the tip of his index finger and he hisses.  Blood beads up, and he applies pressure with his mouth, while clumsily unwrapping a wrinkled old Band-Aid from his top desk drawer.    

Cayenne’s eyes slide left/right, as if reading the image.  Like a spurned lover, her chin juts forward and her mouth turns down.  He’s never expressed any romantic interest in the woman, still, he really should learn to use his powers of charm more judiciously.  She's only human, after all.   

He hasn’t wrested the photo away though, so that’s progress.  He wants to, wants to keep it pristine and untouched.  And anyway, Natalie only gave it to him yesterday.  

> They’d spent the morning surfing at Natalie’s favorite out-of-the-way spot.  Afterwards, boards secured and wetsuits air-drying, they 'd headed back down to the beach, where Logan collapsed in the sand, boneless and zen-like from the monster waves. Nat flopped down next to him and they sipped their beers, watching the tide roll in.   
>    
>  "Oh. I almost forgot." She rummaged through her bag, fishing out a photo and passing it to him. "I snapped this at the wedding. While you guys were dancing."   
>    
>  "Glad you clarified. I might’ve mistaken it for that wild night at clown college."   
>    
>  Natalie shuddered. "We don't joke about clowns."   
>    
>  "My mistake."   
>    
>  "It's a beautiful photo, though, right?"   
>    
>  "Veronica's a beautiful bride." Throat tightening, he studied the individual components - the composition, the lighting, the naked emotion. "And you're a talented photographer."   
>    
>  Natalie scrutinized his reaction out of the corner of her eye. "I miss her. Crazy, huh?  It’s not the rent money.  Just, the apartment is so quiet without her around.  I even kinda miss her morning renditions of 'Bohemian Rhapsody', and she sings _all_ the parts."   
>    
>  "Try focusing on the many ways you can take advantage of your newfound privacy." He performed a suggestive double-eyebrow-bob, and she snorted, shoving at his shoulder.

 Cayenne's demanding voice snaps him back to the here-and-now.  " _Well?_ "   
  
"Well, what?"   
  
She taps a pinkish-tan, regulation-length fingernail against the photo. "Did you, or did you not get married?"   
  
" _Not_." He snatches the picture back, lifting it to eye-level. "I danced with the bride, but I definitely wasn't the groom." 

 

~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~

 

 **Six Weeks Earlier**  

  
The old Sapphire Hotel - wedding venue-of-choice for San Diego's elite - kisses several acres of pristine Pacific shoreline.  
  
Logan parks near the North-side loading dock, where uniformed caterers scurry like ants, unloading aluminum chafing-pans from a Boralli's Catering van, and carrying them into the building. Four other employees emerge from the hotel, transferring their empty pans into a second vehicle, and returning to the first van for another load.  
  
He follows the beef-and-roasted-garlic steam-cloud up the ramp, slipping through the service entrance behind the caterers, and easing the door closed. They turn left, into a large and bustling stainless-steel kitchen, and Logan moves straight ahead.   
  
Circling around a spiral staircase, he steps through an arched doorway, and inhales.

 

[ ](http://imgur.com/lMFzP03)

  
  
Majesty emanates from every inch of the renowned Contessa Ballroom. From the medallion-printed carpet to the soaring Spanish Colonial ceiling where hand-painted motifs decorate the beams and immense chandeliers dangle like jewels.  
  
Six opera balconies hang like oversized Art-Deco light-sconces. One, above his head, the second to his right, on the far side of the stage, and the final four on the opposite wall. Each corner boasts a similar arched doorway, providing access to spiral stairs like the set behind him.   
  
Floral scents tickle his consciousness, taking him back to the last time he stood here: 2003, as his mother's plus-one for the third wedding of a still-vivacious-at-sixty Hollywood legend.  
  
It's a rare, untarnished memory. Lynn Echolls, radiant in an understated golden Versace, dancing eyes and full-throated, head-tipped-back, laughter. His mom had skipped the bubbly that night, in favor of sparkling water, and while Aaron's absence might have been a source of embarrassment, she'd introduced Logan as if he were her first choice. Harrison Ford had commended his firm handshake and Nicole Kidman made a veiled insinuation that he was a step up from his father, date-wise.   
  
Logan had been gawky at fourteen, a pimply, metal-mouthed brat, trying to play-it cool. Secretly, he'd been awed by the grandeur.  He still is.  With the exception of some modernization, the ballroom has changed little in the intervening years.  
  
It's cocktail hour now, and the guests circulating the room tonight are not celebrities. Judging by their clothing and the overall lack of bling, they're not even wealthy.  
  
A voluptuous, platinum-blonde bridesmaid in a knee-length, purple dress hurries past, catching Logan's eye and holding his gaze. She's pretty, in a one-disaster-away-from-an-anxiety-attack sort of way, but he's not here for that. This is merely an errand.  
  
Snagging a flute of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter, he moves towards the stage where Tony Bennett performed back in 2003. Tonight, the six-piece band plays John Legend's "All of Me".  
  
Luxurious, iridescent curtains form the stage's backdrop. A second pair swoops to each side, tied back, but overlapping enough at the top to conceal the light rigging.  
  
He's taken no more than a dozen steps when a woman moves in, blocking his path. "Sir, you can't come in that way. That's the Service Entrance. Only the catering staff and vendors can use that door."  
  
In her mid-forties, she stands eye-to-eye with him, wide-shouldered, and thick boned, but not overweight. From her nude pumps, to her lightweight tweed suit, to her sleek dark ponytail, everything about her radiates competence and efficiency. An unobtrusive headset hooks over her left ear, and a checklist glows from her tablet.  
  
She turns off the screen and closes the cover of her black leather folio case. An engraved silver plate on the front reads - "Weston Weddings & Events. Lenore Weston".  
  
_Wedding planner. Wonderful._  
  
"The guestbook and receiving line are out in the foyer, sir." She points at the opposite wall. "If you'll just head through those French doors—"  
  
"I'm not actually a guest." Logan ducks his head and flashes her a smile. "I don't even know these people, so signing the book probably isn't a great idea."

 _Unless there's a market for the autographs of those who share DNA with celebrity murderers. I'll have to check eBay._  
  
The woman's green eyes narrow into dangerous slits, and he imagines himself as the Primary Target in the digital-crosshairs of the Weddingator.  She speaks into her headset. "Security."  

"Wait." Logan laughs and holds up a hand. "Look, I'm not a wedding crasher or anything. I'm with the band."  
  
"I've worked with Smooth Gravity many times. You are _not_ a member."  
  
"I didn't say I'm _in_ the band. My roommate is one of the singers." He points. "The little brunette."  
  
"Cancel that." She crosses her arms. "Your roommate should have informed you that this is a private event, not a free concert."  
  
"Look, she texted me an hour ago." Logan pulls out his cell, opens the messaging app, and deletes the most recent text before handing the phone to her. "She's having some kind of electrical problem with her mic and wanted me to bring her a backup from home."  
  
"And you just decided to help yourself to some champagne?"  
  
He shrugs. "Well, I did selflessly drive twenty minutes out of my way to save this nice party from a fire hazard. I figure I've earned it. I'm like a hero or something."  
  
Her lips flatten in disapproval. Not amused. "Well?"  
  
"Well what?"  
  
"Where is it?" She wiggles his phone as a reminder.  
  
"Oh. Right." He opens his jacket, extracting the microphone from his inside pocket, while Lenore Weston zeroes in on the Prada label.  
  
He’d changed before leaving the apartment, thinking his jeans and tee-shirt would attract too much attention. _This suit had one job..._  
  
She examines his face, gradual recognition altering her expression, and glances back down at the text message.  
  
"Logan..." She reads. "Are you...?"  
  
_Fantastic_.   
  
"I am, but I don't advertise it. So, if we could—”  
  
"I see it now." She dissects his features with a predatory stare. "You have his eyes, I think. And this..." her vague gesture to the side of her face might indicate cheekbones, jawline, profile, or all-of-the-above, for all Logan can make out. "I met him once at an Oscar party I coordinated."  
  
_You mean, you banged him at a party?_  
  
"I was a big fan."  
  
"That makes one of us."  
  
She tilts her head like a bird of prey, and apparently decides he's joking. "You're almost as handsome as he was."  
  
Logan winks. "I'm twice as handsome." He won’t come in second-place to a dead psychopath. Not anymore.  
  
"Perhaps you are." She squints, weighing him on a mental balance-scale, and her sudden smile unsettles him after the previous all-business display.  
  
"So I should..." He points the microphone at the stage. "Wouldn't want my friend getting zapped on the job.  Imagine the lawsuits!"  
  
"Right. Of course." Lenore brushes his hand as she returns his phone. "Take your time, Logan. Have another glass of champagne if you'd like? or some hors d'oeuvres."  
  
"Um...thanks." Scary how the Asshole's name still opens doors for him all these years later.  
  
She delays him with a finger, hands him a business card with 'WESTON WEDDINGS AND EVENTS' spelled out in that all-caps font used on movie posters.  
  
"Give me a call if you need any help planning your next event. Or...just give me a call." Her eyes are direct, no hesitation, no coyness.  
  
"Sure thing..." He glances down. "...Lenore. Now, if you'll excuse me?" He pockets the card (no point in being rude) and walks away.

 

~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~

  
Wedding guests talk quietly in pairs and trios, paying little attention to the band. Logan’s roommate is currently singing backup, while her boyfriend, Malik, takes lead on a decent rendition of Pharell's "Happy". Logan moves into her line-of-sight and waves.  
  
Her eyes narrow and, gesturing that she'll return in a moment, she hurries down the three stairs at the side of the stage, taking Logan by the arm and dragging him away. "What are you doing here?" she hisses between her teeth.  
  
"Um...you texted me, begging me to bring you a backup microphone. Remember?"  
  
"I remember texting you again, saying that you should NOT show up."  
  
"Which I received five minutes ago, while I was parking my car. Did you expect me to just turn around and leave again after driving all the way here?"  
  
She sighs. "Thank you. I appreciate you making the trip, but you have to go."  
  
He holds up his glass. "At least let me finish my drink."  
  
"You can't. You have to go before the wedding planner from hell throws a fit."  
  
"Who, Lenore? Don't worry about her. She invited me to have more champagne. And sex...I think. She's a fan."  
  
"Logan, I need you to leave now." She snatches the mic from his hand, avoiding his eyes as she wraps the cord around her hand.   
  
He grasps her arm and ducks to look into her eyes. "Heather, what the hell is going on? Why are you so freaked out?"  
  
She exhales and glances up at him, visibly guilty. "I screwed up so badly."  
  
"Did something happen with Malik? He worships you.  Whatever happened, I'm sure you can fix it. You want me to talk to him?"  
  
"No, my relationship is solid." She takes the champagne glass from Logan's hand, and again, pulls him back towards the Service Entrance. "I lied about the microphone, based on an assumption that turned out to be wrong. Stupidly-fucking-wrong, and you have to go."  
  
He digs in his heels preventing her from shoving him through the doorway. "What are you trying to hide from me?"  
  
_"Logan?"_  
  
The voice comes from behind, raising goosebumps on his flesh and setting every nerve in his body on fire.  
  
Heather mouths the word 'fuck' and closes her eyes in defeat.

The exit is straight ahead. All he needs to do is walk through, and he'll never have to acknowledge the truth his heart already knows.   
  
_I need to see her._  
  
Hell, he's famous for being a glutton for punishment. Why should today be any different?

Snatching the champagne back from Heather, he downs it in a single gulp and turns around.  
  
His gaze locks with Veronica's and their breaths catch in unison.  
  
He's always envisioned their next encounter in terms of movie clichés - time freezing, hearts stopping, eyes meeting across a crowded room.  
  
This, surpasses his imagination. This is an answer to a question he never asked. This is the highest of highs and lowest of lows.  
  
Veronica's eyes mirror his every emotion - joy, longing, thunderstruck-never-ending love.  
  
When a woman looks at you this way, the proper response is to run to her. To sweep her up and tangle together - mouths, bodies, souls.  
  
There's precedent. The day after graduation, when she cared enough to leave her newly-resurrected father to track Logan down at the beach. Again, a year later, when she popped up at his door at the Grand. And that weird dream where he was the Mayor of Neptune, of all things. But the streak ends here.

She's wearing someone else's ring on her finger.   
  
She's somebody else's bride.  
  
Logan's eyes flood with the sudden, irreversible, death of a hope he hadn't realized he was still clinging to.  
  
His brain grapples with the surreality of seeing her in white; even more so, with the way the strapless gown floats around her like a Disney princess. She's jaw-droppingly, heart-stoppingly gorgeous, yet somehow, he'd always imagined her in something simple and elegant.  
  
_Standing next to me.  
  
_ Veronica's mouth opens - preparing a denial, an explanation, a platitude, but a glance down at her attire and she exhales instead.  
  
Regaining her composure, she tries again, smiles - a little forced, but warm, nonetheless. "If you're here to do the dramatic objection thing, you're a few hours late. You're supposed to do it during the ceremony."  
_  
Speak now, or forever hold your peace. Forever._  
  
Despite the fire in his lungs, he manages to smile back. "Yeah...sorry about that. Made a wrong turn in Albuquerque." Shrugs.  
  
"GPS, Logan. It's a thing."  
  
He snaps his fingers. "And I even gassed up the motorcycle for a quick getaway." Exhaling, he drops the act. "Seriously though, this is just a coincidence. I'm here as a favor to my roommate. She's in the band and her mic was on the fritz, so I brought her a backup, and..."  
  
Heather peeks out from behind him, finger-waving and brandishing the microphone like the key piece of evidence in a murder trial. She pastes on a manic smile and then does that sideways, _must-escape-this-moment-of-extreme-awkwardness_ shuffle, leaving him alone with Veronica.  
  
_On the fritz, my ass. We're having a discussion later._  
  
"Logan..." Veronica breathes his name on a sigh.  
  
_Take it back! Tell him you made a mistake. Get an annulment. Or don't. I don't even care. We could just run away together, and...  
_  
He inhales for strength. Stepping forward, he takes both of her hands and looks into her eyes. "Congratulations, Veronica. I've only ever wanted for you to be happy." With each word, his throat constricts a little tighter. "Whoever he is, I hope he realizes what a lucky man he is."  
  
He presses lips to her forehead. Whispers, "You look beautiful. I'm gonna go now."  
  
She grips his wrists. "No."  
  
"No?"  
  
"Don't go." She smiles at him, tentative. "Stay. Please?"  
  
He fumbles for some way to articulate his urgency to escape - to go drown his sorrows like he hasn't in years. "It's probably not a good idea. You know, seating charts and head counts. I already survived my interrogation-by-wedding-planner."  
  
"Leave the wedding planner to me."  
  
He hasn't even agreed, but Veronica has his arm, curling her fingers around his bicep to get him moving.   
  
He can't help himself. That still-desperate-to-impress-her part of him takes over, and he flexes.  
  
"Hello." She bites her lip. "I see somebody's been eating his spinach."  
  
"You know me, _'Strong to the finish'_."  
  
Her smile is barely perceptible, but her eyes spark - a carnal, heated, acknowledgement that they'd once had something...incendiary.  
  
Right on cue, Lenore Weston intercepts them. "Mrs. Nicholls!"  
  
_Nicholls?_ At least it’s not Kane, or Pizzarelli (or whatever the fuck that puppy was called), but who the hell is this Nicholls dude?  
  
Lenore hurries to explain. "Mr. Echolls is only here on an errand for the band, and plans to leave in a few minutes. But I can have security—”  
  
"Mr. Echolls isn't going anywhere." Veronica cuts her off. "Logan is my oldest friend, and would've been on the guest list if I'd known he was stateside."  
  
"Okay. Last-minute guest." Lenore blows out a breath and powers-on her tablet. "Leave Logan here with me, and I'll be happy to get him situated." She smiles, bland and polite, but something about the gleam in her eyes convinces Logan her idea of _situated_ wouldn't be very sanitary.   
  
Veronica lifts an affronted brow. "Um...we're good. I know exactly what to do with Logan, so you can go back to whatever you were doing." She makes a brush-off gesture, and drags him away before Lenore can respond.  
  
Leaning close, she drops her voice to a whisper. "Am I imagining things, or did that poor-man's Lucy Lawless just hit on you?"  
  
"Big fan of my dad's. Organized an Oscar party for him once, which is usually code for, slept with him, and wants another ticket to the Echolls Experience."  
  
"I'm sorry, Logan." Her face blanches. "You don't deserve that."  
  
"Eh...you know how it is. Southern California is like a minefield of Aaron Echolls castoffs. All underfoot with designs on my appendages and waiting to go boom." He mimes an explosion and she stifles a laugh.  
  
The bar is unoccupied, save for a single guest. A striking Latina woman on a corner stool glances at her phone, sighs, and drops her arm heavily.  
  
"Nat," Veronica calls out, "Steve stood you up again, didn't he?" Her eyes tighten, and Logan fears for Steve's well-being.  
  
The woman manages a sad chuckle. "Stefan," she corrects with a roll of the eyes. "He texted. His mommy's having anxiety and he needs to make her comfortable."  
  
"I knew that guy was flaky." Veronica shakes her head. "Can I interest you in a last-minute plus-one? I can vouch for his superior conversational skills."  
  
The woman's attention shifts to Logan, suspicious. "This had better not be a fix up, because..." she lifts her phone. "...we know how well that works."  
  
"No. Definitely not. This is my old friend..." Veronica pauses, adding a certain weight to his name. "...Logan Echolls."  
  
Natalie tilts her head, alert and curious. Clearly familiar with his name.   
  
"Logan, my roommate and close friend, Natalie Acosta."  
  
Natalie stands.  She's taller than Veronica by a few inches, and appears to be around the same age. Her upper lip is a hint wider than the bottom one, curving down at both ends, and her wavy neck-length hair gradually lightens from chestnut at the roots to golden brown at the choppy ends.  She takes his offered hand and gives it a firm shake. "I would love some company, actually. Pull up a bar stool."

Veronica gives her a double thumbs-up.  “Excellent.  I suspect you’ll get along great.”     
  
The  blonde-bombshell bridesmaid who'd eyed Logan earlier, pokes her head through the lobby doors, hands lifted in a _'what's-taking-you-so-long_?' gesture.  
  
"Bridget." Veronica sighs. "I'd better get back out to the receiving line. People to greet, hands to shake, and cheeks to kiss." She runs her palm up the inside of Logan’s arm.  "Promise you'll save a dance for me later? I'd really love to hear all about your life. I've always wondered..."  
  
He wants to refuse. Wants to manufacture some last-minute urgent errand. But she's staring at him with those soft, innocent-kitten eyes that could convince him stepping into traffic was in his best interests. "Yeah, I'll stick around."  
  
"Thank you." Veronica smiles, something both intimate and regretful. She squeezes his shoulder and walks away.

 

~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~

  
  
Logan follows her retreat with his eyes. His ribs are tiny boa constrictors, tightening around his heart, and he's not sure if he's going to puke first or sob.  
  
"You look devastated," Natalie says.   
  
"What gave me away? The wailing, or the bargaining with God?"   
  
"Actually, it was the dramatic clawing at your hair."  
  
"My tell.”  He turns back with a stoic nod.  “It catches me up every time." Twisting one of the burgundy leather bar stools counter-clockwise, he takes a moment to appreciate the vintage brass nail-head aesthetic, before hopping up and signaling the bartender.   
  
A thousand questions ricochet through his mind - Veronica, her husband, career, children, her life over these past nine years. Invasive questions he doesn't dare voice.   
  
"You still have feelings for her." Natalie phrases the statement as an observation, and he bows his head in assent. No point in denying the obvious.   
  
"If it makes me any less pathetic, I did move on. But I guess some part of me never stopped believing she was my future."  
  
"Your destiny?" 

Logan winces.  “Not the first word I’d choose – mainly, because Veronica would outright reject the concept – but yeah.  Basically.”   
  
She offers him a sympathetic smile. Words form on her lips, but the bartender rescues him from empty platitudes by moving in and tossing down a chipboard coaster. "What'll it be?"   
  
"Scotch. Neat. The best you've got."  
  
"The best" turns out to be not-so-great, but what can you expect from an open bar? It burns well-enough going down.  
  
Logan concentrates on what should be a simple task - dragging air into his lungs.   
  
_You've lived without her this long. You can survive the next fifty years or so.  
_  
As far as inner pep-talks go, it fails miserably.  Tears threaten to fall, and his throat closes-up like death.  
  
Hell, if a broken heart is going to take him out, he may as well track down that waiter passing crab puff appetizers. Quicker that way _._  
  
The worst part is, Heather's been urging him to make contact with Veronica ever since he got back to the West Coast two months ago? Why didn't he listen? Could he have changed this outcome?   
  
He's played chicken with himself a thousand times, dialing her number, and hanging up before it rang. If he'd only allowed a single call to connect. What if he'd emailed? Texted? Forwarded a kitten video? Sent her a Birthday card? A Christmas card? An Arbor Day card? Would she have responded?

Was she waiting all along for him to cross the divide?   
  
A hand - small, with blackish-brown, glittery, fingernails - wraps around his knee. He lifts a brow, but between her crushing grip and her hard, intense, gaze, Natalie is clearly not making a pass at him.   
  
"Don't." She lowers her voice to a near-growl. "I can imagine what's going through your head right now, but I'm not going to allow you to lose your shit."  
  
He snorts. "Excuse me?"  
  
"Tomorrow. Save it all until then."  
  
"What am I saving?"  
  
"Everything you're tempted to do right now."  
  
He scoffs, an attempt at being dismissive, but she tilts her head, daring him to argue.   
  
"Tomorrow, you're free to drink yourself into a coma, nail every bimbo in sight, and fall apart to your heart's content. But..." She holds up a finger forestalling further protest. "But tonight, you are going to control your shit.  We'll have two drinks before dinner, and no more. You're going to dazzle me with that famous wit, and you're going to hold it together. For Veronica's sake."  
  
He stares, slack-jawed and utterly speechless.   
  
"Nod once if you understand."  
  
Logan obeys.  
  
"Good." She gifts him with a genuine smile, wide and toothy, with dimples, and her attractiveness skyrockets from a respectable eight-point-five up to twelve.  
  
_Wow! How did I miss that?  
_  
"Really?" She catches the shift in his awareness and gives an adamant shake of her head. "Don't even think about it."  
  
He snorts. "Consider my mind wiped."  
  
Curt nod. "Glad we got that straight."  
  
The mirrored wall behind the bar reflects the ballroom – flickering candles by the dozens, bright colored floral displays and formal-wear, Natalie in her sheer, busily-patterned halter-dress and the slow smile creeping across his own face.   
  
"You're...formidable," he admits. "Ever consider a career as a drill instructor?"   
  
"No, but if I ever decide to throw away years of education and thousands in loan debt, I'll keep that in mind."   
  
Logan wipes a smudge off his watch screen with his sleeve. "What do you do for a living?"   
  
"I'm a neuropsychologist."   
  
"Neuropsychologist? So, if a neurosurgeon operates on the brain, then you must..."   
  
She nods, encouraging his train of thought.  
  
"...counsel all the poor schmucks they traumatize with their God complexes and poor social skills?"   
  
Natalie laughs. "Not quite. Have you dealt with many of arrogant neurosurgeons?"  
  
"No, but my dad played one in a movie. Not an acting stretch, honestly." He continues, not giving her a chance to pick up the Aaron-thread. "So what does a neuropsychologist do?"  
  
"There's a broad range of applications, but I work with patients who've experienced traumatic head injuries. There's a strong correlation between cognitive ability, behavior, and hemispheres of the brain. Knowing where damage occurred can help with predicting and planning for behavioral changes in patients."  
  
"You mean like reduced empathy?"  
  
"Exactly. Among other things, like risky behavior, impulsiveness, aggression, depression."   
  
"What made you choose that line of work? Did somebody close to you...?"  
  
"No, no tragic backstory." She considers for a moment. "At least nothing personal. But there were these two girls in high school. Danielle and Desiree Jackson. Identical twins, actually."   
  
"Close friends?"   
  
She shakes her head. "No, they were a couple years older and part of the popular crowd. But they were always nice to me. Nice to everyone."  
  
"What happened to them?"   
  
"It started with a freak accident. Stripped screws in weak plaster ceiling, and a heavy light fixture toppled down onto Danielle's head. She spent some time in a trauma care center, and when she returned to school, there was this unspoken rule to pretend nothing had changed, nothing was different. I don't know how the altercation started or what exactly happened, but Desiree ended up permanently in a wheelchair, and Danielle ended up in jail." Natalie lifts her glass, clinks the ice cubes against the side, and sips. "I was only a teenager, but I'd always been fascinated with the brain, and it just seemed like such a waste of two lives. So preventable."   
  
"Preventable, how? Short of body-cams and a MedAlert bracelet, how could anyone have stopped it?" Logan drags over a disgustingly-cheerful bowl of Jordan almonds. Using the spoon, he scoops a dozen or so green ones onto a clean bar napkin before offering the bowl to her.  
  
She declines with a gesture. "Aggressive behavior can be a side-effect of temporal lobe damage." She points to the side of her head above her ear. "If Danielle Jackson were my patient, I’d know to include coping and de-escalation techniques in her rehabilitation plan. On the other hand, if she'd had damage to her parietal lobe, we'd be more concerned with spacial awareness, hand-eye coordination, ability to write and name objects. I'm over-simplifying, but you get the gist."   
  
"Sounds fascinating." And utterly miserable. Logan shudders to imagine what his own brain might look like under a microscope.   
  
How many walls and floors rose up to meet his face as a child? What kind of hidden damage occurred that time Aaron backhanded him off a retaining wall? Other than the concussion, of course.   
  
Dammit, he's not one to shirk responsibility or make excuses for his behavior, but, he can't shake the idea that he could have been so much more; that Growing Up Echolls stunted him in ways he's still discovering.   
  
Natalie changes her mind about the almonds, pulling the bowl closer, and pointedly scooping out an assortment of colors. "So how about you? What inspired you to become a daring fighter pilot?"   
  
"Did I leave on my wings again?" Logan makes a show of glancing down at his suit.  
  
"If your occupation was supposed to be some great secret, I'm afraid to tell you, the tabloids have outed you."   
  
"You're one of those...tabloid readers?" He makes an exaggerated face of revulsion, and looks at his watch. "I just remembered, I left the oven on."   
  
Natalie bumps his shoulder. "You might want to talk to Veronica about that. She's the one who left them sitting around the apartment. And strangely enough, only ones featuring a certain ex-boyfriend on the cover."   
  
"I never imagined she would..."   
  
"If you thought she simply forgot about you, or denied your existence, you couldn't be more wrong."   
  
“Damn.”  He blows out a breath, and meets her eyes. "Life with Carrie was a wild ride.  She…acted out…and her friends resented me for trying to rein-in her behavior.  But the media got _everything_ wrong.  They reported our words out of context, and edited footage in ways that mispresented who we were.” 

"If it makes you feel any better, Veronica knew that."   
  
Logan gives her a grateful nod and swallows. "To answer your question...after Veronica left Neptune, I was forced to acknowledge how much I'd been counting on her to straighten me out, or help me find my purpose or whatever. We'd been broken up for at least six months at that point, but I guess I just figured a reunion was inevitable. It's what we did."   
  
"On again, off again?"  
  
"You could say that. Anyway, she wasn't going to fix me. I had to fix myself, and the Navy gave me the structure, discipline, and accountability I needed to make those changes. It turned me into a man, and was probably the best decision I ever made."   
  
"Great story." Natalie sips her drink through the swizzle stick. "Now what's the real reason you joined the Navy."   
  
Logan's cheeks warm and, even as he mumbles under his breath, his grin stretches wide. "Fine. If you must know, it's the closest I could get to realizing my childhood dream of becoming Han Solo."  
  
"Nice!" She laughs out loud, a raspy, sandpaper sound. "Now all you need is a big, shaggy, barely-intelligible sidekick."   
  
"Would you believe me if I told you I'm all set in that department? I call him Dick Casablancas."   
  
"Funny, from Veronica's descriptions, I always got more of a Jabba the Hutt vibe."   
  
He thinks about it, and then nods. "Also an apt description."   
  
"I met the guy, once," she says. "He hit on me at some bar until Veronica showed up."  
  
Logan chuckles. "Bet that scared him away fast."   
  
"Sure did." She finishes off her drink. "But only after a five-minute monologue about you and Bonnie DeVille. How happy you were together. How much she accepted you and never tried to castrate you. And how successful and respectable you'd become without Veronica around to drag you down."   
  
Logan presses his hands to his face, slowly sliding them up into his hair. "For the record, he hated me with Carrie, too. Don't get me wrong, he actually liked her as a person, but Dick gets jealous of anybody who stands in the way of me going out prowling with him. Which is a big reason why I'm staying here in San Diego instead of commuting from Neptune right now."  
  
Natalie motions over the bartender, orders a second round of drinks, and they lapse into a comfortable silence while they wait for their refills. 

The band’s guitarist strums the opening notes of a song, and a hush falls over the room. 

Logan swivels around on his bar stool as Malik steps up to the mic.   

 **I never meant to cause you any sorrow** **  
I never meant to cause you any pain  
I only wanted to one time to see you laughing  
I only wanted to see you laughing in the purple rain**

His voice is pure and unadorned and goose bumps lift on Logan’s arms.

It's a little too...everything.  Too soon, too heartfelt, too applicable.  Too fucking late.  

His sinuses prickle with emotion, and his internal radar pings – that old awareness, still alive-and-kicking a decade later.  He rotates his head to the right. 

Veronica stands at the railing of the second balcony opposite the stage.  Their gazes snap together, and she smiles.  _His_ smile. The one she's never given to another (at least not in his presence). Slow and soft, with a hint of disbelief.  An _‘I-can’t-believe-this-idiot-wormed-his-way-into-my-heart’_ smile.        
  
Hummingbird wings flutter in his stomach, and he smiles back.   
  
Of course, there’s a different man in her heart now, and _His_ smile probably comes easily, without the whole “idiot” disclaimer.  But he'll take it. He'll take anything.   

Her hair is a golden halo in the light from the chandelier, and Logan takes a mental snapshot. It hurts like a bitch, and he'd give everything owns to be the man she zipped on that dress for, but he never wants to forget the way she looks right now.   
  
She holds the eye-contact longer than she should, not breaking it off until a random bridesmaid touches her arm and points down to where Lenore Weston heatedly exchanges words with a member of the catering staff. 

Which, if you think about it, is probably a bad sign for dinner.   
  
The rest of the wedding party congregates in the corridor that connects the four balconies. Through the open doorways, Logan catches glimpses of black tuxes and purple dresses, but can't make out any features. Still no sign of the groom.   
  
The guests watch the band with slow sways and rapt attention. He’s honestly surprised nobody’s holding up a lighter.  He’d do it himself if he had one. 

 

~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~

 

Logan turns back to Natalie. "Want to hear about the high point of my fourteenth year?"  
  
"Pubescent fumblings with the fabulous Lilly Kane?"  
  
Logan snorts. "No, that was the high point of my thirteenth year and my fifteenth year."  
  
"I'm on the edge of my seat."  
  
"It was right here – this ballroom, this bar. Right about..." He points to the middle of the bar, about four stools down. "I was here with my mom for a wedding. Big celebrity thing, A-Listers everywhere."  
  
"Wait." Natalie halts him with a lifted hand. "Let me guess. Veronica's twenty-eight, so you guys would've been fourteen in...2002. Who was big back then?"  
  
"2003, actually. Veronica's about seven months older than me."  
  
"Interesting and exploitable.  Okay, 2003. You met...Britney? Christina? Jessica?"  
  
"Nope. Better. Think more on the acting side."  
  
Natalie rattles off names, both flattering (Jessica Alba, Mila Kunis, Rebecca Romijn) and frankly insulting (Lindsay, Mischa, Tara, Paris). Logan denies each in turn.

Her eyes lift in thought, lips pursing.  “I can’t see you being impressed by some brawny action star.”

“Hardly.”

“Fine, I give up.  Who did you meet?”   
  
"So...As I was saying before you rudely interrupted," He rolls his eyes in faux exasperation. "It was right here. The waiter was taking forever to get back with our drinks, so my mom sent me to the bar. I placed our orders - a sparkling water for her and a Coke for me."  
  
"Wow. This story is riveting," she says, and laughs at his resulting scowl.  
  
_Cute_.  
  
"I was a little bored by then, and the bartender seemed like a decent guy, so I started telling him jokes. All of my best material. There was this one joke..." Logan cuts her off before she can ask. "I don't remember. I've racked my brain for thirteen years trying to remember what that joke was, and I just keep drawing a blank."  
  
"And? What happened? He didn't laugh?"  
  
"Oh, he laughed, all right. But he wasn't the only one. I heard two people laughing behind me. Huge, guffawing, wheezing, laughter, complete with knee slaps. So I turned around."  
  
"And...?" Natalie leans forward. "Who was it?"  
  
"Sir Ian McKellen and Sir Patrick Stewart."  
  
"No. Freaking. Way."  
  
Logan grins and nods. "Tell me about it. So there I was, trying not to look like a total fanboy - which I mean, come on, of course I was – and Ian McKellen slapped me on the back, told me I had great comedic timing. I guess they'd been standing there for a few minutes, listening."  
  
Natalie's smile widens. "Veronica did say you were funny."  
  
"She meant my face."  He makes a circle gesture.  "But that's not even the end. Patrick Stewart sat down on my right, and Ian McKellen took the stool on my left. I'm sitting there between Professor X and Magneto. Gandalf and Captain Picard. And they're trading jokes with me like I'm one of the guys."  
  
He inhales, remembering the next part. "My mom showed up after a while to see why I was taking so long. She called out for me, but when she saw me sitting with these two legends, you could just see this veil of shyness come down over her. Stewart turned around, greeted her by name, and mentioned some Indie film she made when I was little."  
  
"That must have been flattering."  
  
He swallows and nods. "McKellen didn't recognize the title, and asked if he'd seen it, and Stewart was like," Logan impersonates the man's accent. _"'Yes, you were there. At Ophelia's screening. It was that one with the woman struggling to kick a drug habit, in order to retain custody of her children. Very stark and gritty. True story, I believe.'_ "   
  
"Mom confirmed that it was, indeed, the true story of Lina West, a country star back in the nineties. McKellen regarded my mom for a long moment, like he was trying to mentally peel back the makeup and glamour. _'Yes...I think I do remember. The ex-husband was one of those good-old-boy politicians. Dreadfully violent, but nobody believed her, so she had to keep her addiction secret and fight it on her own.'_ My mom just kind of nodded, and then he grabbed her arm. _'Riveting performance, my dear. You really sold the raw helplessness of the character.'_ Or something like that.".  
  
Logan sips at his scotch. "You can't imagine how much that meant to her. Daddy Dearest was the Oscar winner. She was always viewed as the talentless bimbo wife. She spent the rest of the evening dabbing at the corners of her eyes when no one was looking."   
  
His throat closes up again. There's no point in retelling the conversation they'd had later that night, up on one of the opera balconies flanking the stage.   
  
His mom had smiled down at the dance floor, where the brightest legends of stage and screen danced the Macarena. Her expression radiated a genuine enjoyment and warmth, filling Logan with an alien sense of peace and contentment - like sun, bursting through clouds after a storm. If this was true happiness, then what was everything else? The frequent girlish laughter? The bubbly personality? Was Lynn Echolls the best actor in the family?   
  
He'd instinctively known it might be his best opportunity to convince her to leave Aaron, and was formulating his approach when her gaze grew distant and her smile faltered.   
  
"He found her, you know?" she'd said, and then, after a few beats, clarified. "Lina West's husband. He found her, murdered her, and stole back the children."   
  
"Um...okay?" Logan had responded, bewildered and a bit annoyed that she'd ruined the perfect moment.   
  
"He was powerful and connected, and she never truly believed she could escape." Her mouth had turned down, and she'd run her hand over Logan's hair, cupping the back of his head like she'd done when he was a child. "But Lina's sacrifice wasn't in vain."   
  
"Sacrifice?"  
  
"She had one year of freedom. And she spent that time securing a future for her kids – liquidating assets and funneling that money into trusts drawing up emancipation papers for her twin boys, and documenting the violence."   
  
She'd turned to Logan, lips stretched in a sadly courageous smile. "He stole back the kids, but he didn't get to keep them. They were free within a month.”  She shook her head, and reverted back to herself.  “Come on, it looks like they're about to cut the cake."   
  
_Fuck!_

 _Was she planning...?  
_  
The hair lifts on the back of Logan's neck. How had he missed the underlying message in her words?   
  
Was it coincidence that the day after the will reading, his mom's lawyer had contacted him about filing for emancipation. He'd had mere days to consider the suggestion before Aaron had been arrested for Lilly's murder.   
  
_Oh, mom. If only you could've held out a few months longer._  
  
"So how many times have you watched the movie?" Natalie asks.   
  
"The Lina West movie? She made it when I was three." He lifts his shoulder in a half shrug "It's been sitting in my Netflix queue for a decade. I've just never gotten around to watching it."   
  
"Why not?"  
  
_Why not, indeed?_ You 'd think he would jump at the opportunity to witness the performance that had inspired such admiration in two of his biggest heroes. But he can't bring himself to watch her try-on vulnerability and desperation like a dress, when she'd refused to reveal any such humanity in the real world.  
  
He's saved from having to answer, by a voice calling, "Oh my god, Logan!"  
  
Heather crashes into him, wrapping her arms around him and squeezing. "I can't believe you're still here."  
  
"Haven't met my masochism quota for September, yet." Logan extracts himself from her embrace. "Also, the bride requested my presence."   
  
Heather gestures to the bartender, lifting an invisible glass to her mouth.   
  
"Another Coke?" he asks.   
  
"Please." She looks back at Logan with sad, pitying eyes. "Are you okay?"   
  
"I'm controlling my shit." He smirks at Natalie over her head.   
  
Heather catches the look and turns around. "Oh, I'm sorry for interrupting."  
  
"Not a problem."   
  
"Heather Button, meet Veronica's roommate, Natalie Acosta. Or former roommate I suppose, now that she's married."   
  
They shake hands and exchange _'nice-to-meet-you's_.   
  
The bartender returns with Heather's soda. She tosses a tip on the bar and then slides her free arm around Logan. "I am so. Sincerely. Sorry. about luring you here. It might not seem like it right now, but I was only trying to help."  
  
"Help relieve me of the last of my romantic delusions?"  His lips tense and twist. "For once, your meddling worked."   
  
"I can explain!" She flicks her eyes towards Natalie, silently questioning whether she can speak plainly in front of her.

He nods his permission.

"I didn't know she was the bride."   
  
"How could you not know whose wedding you playing?"  
  
"Weston Events booked us. Anyway, Malik handles the business side." For Natalie's benefit, she points to the stage, where her boyfriend croons, 'Unforgettable'. "All I do is show up and sing when I hear my cue."  
  
"And very effectively," Natalie says.   
  
"Why, thank you!" Heather preens at the compliment. "Anyway, Veronica showed up with two other women while we were doing sound-check."  
  
"And the fluffy white dress didn't tip you off that she might not be on the market for a surprise fix-up?" Logan asks.  
  
Heather shakes her head. "They were all wearing jeans. And anyway, it was that other blonde - the..."  She whistles and mimes an hourglass figure.  "...one - who was walking around like Queen Bridezilla."  
  
"Bridget Adams?" Natalie points up to the balcony where he last saw Veronica. The anxious blonde-bombshell bridesmaid from earlier now stands there alone, surveying the ballroom.  
  
"Yeah, that's her."   
  
"She's the groom's closest friend, and she can be a bit of a...micromanager. What did she do?"  
  
"Oh, you know, she walked around inspecting everything. Floral arrangements and centerpieces. Silverware and place settings." Heather imitates the woman, exaggeratedly peering at the bar accessories; making minute adjustments to the placement of the Jordan almonds and cocktail napkins; running her fingertip across the bar and checking it for dust.

"She yelled at two of the catering staff, and Malik looked about ready to quit when she nitpicked the set list. Then she pushed her way into the kitchen, and I thought Lenore, the wedding planner, was going to have an aneurism. Veronica seemed so laid-back in comparison, I just assumed she was one of the bridesmaids."  
  
"In Heather's defense, Veronica's been remarkably sanguine during this this process," Natalie says. "It's the groom's side that pushed for this spectacle."  
  
Heather adds, "Remember, I did try to stop you from coming. Once I saw the set list with my own eyes, and noticed Veronica's name listed as bride. But I swear, after this, I'm hanging up my matchmaking gloves forever."  
  
"Or until next week."  
  
Heather inhales, preparing to protest, then, apparently thinking better of it, she shrugs. "I am who I am."   
  
The song is winding down, and she glances over at the stage. "Well, I'd better get back up there. Forgive me, Logan?" She bats her lashes.  
  
"If I must." He softens the words by kissing her cheek.  
  
"You must. See you at home if we don't get another chance to talk."   
  
Heather flounces away.  
  
Natalie watches her go, amused. "She's adorable. Although, it's a bit unreal to hear that huge singing voice coming from such a small girl. Is she a relative?"  
  
"Not by blood, but she's like a sister to me. I was recently reassigned to the Coronado Naval Base, so I've been living with her while I house hunt. Not a big fan of on-base housing."   
  
"Where were you stationed before?"  
  
"East coast - Virginia, specifically - since around Spring, 2013. After..."    _Carrie._ _Pale and lifeless in a puddle of three-day-old vomit._ A shiver runs through him, head to toe.  
  
"After?" Natalie asks. Her eyes dart away and she answers her own question. "After Bonnie DeVille?"  
  
Logan swallows and nods. "I needed a change in scenery. Before I ended up doing something stupid."   
  
"I thought it was ruled an accident."   
  
"The overdose was accidental, but the crowd she hung around with..." He exhales, doing his best to expel the anger that fills him every time he thinks about Carrie's inner circle. Pushers, like Sean Friedrich, and the enablers, Gia Goodman and Luke Haldeman. "I don't know why I let it upset me. Can't undo the past, right?"  
  
Natalie opens her mouth, her intention to head-shrink him written across her features.   
  
_**"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. May I have your attention, please?"**_  
  
All eyes turn to the stage where Malik holds his microphone. He waits as the conversation dwindles to a gentle hum.

 _ **"We're about to begin serving dinner, so we ask that you locate your tables now and make yourself comfortable."**_  
  
The band launches into a soft instrumental, while guests shuffle to their seats.  
  
Natalie extracts an off-white place card from her purse, engraved with: 'Acosta and Guest'. "Looks like we're at table eleven." She stands, holding out her arm. "Shall we?"

~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~

_**...I've got years to wait around for you** _

 

Their table - identified by a golden number "11" in a bejeweled frame - conveniently turns out to be the one closest to the bar.   
  
Three women and two men occupy the other side of the table.  They greet Logan and Natalie with tepid smiles and half-hearted ' _hello's_ ', before immediately returning to their conversations in-progress.  
  
Logan glances a question at Natalie, who responds with a tiny head shake. She doesn't know them either.   
  
He pulls out a chair for her - careful not to disturb the golden bow securing the draped fabric – and then takes a seat for himself. "It's like stumbling into the Twilight Zone."  
  
"What is?"  
  
He sweeps a hand, indicating both the table and the room at large.  
  
While no one can deny the decor is elegant, it’s fussy and opulent.  The anti-Veronica.  
  
A short white-lace tablecloth drapes over a longer satin one, burnished gold visible through the eyelets.   
  
Before him, a beaded gold border encircles a large glass charger. Like a sort of culinary cummerbund, a deep-gold satin napkin bisects the center of the plate, tucking under the rim on each side. Atop this, rests a cardstock menu - white paper lace over purple, edged in gold - and a single stemless rose in a warm shade of plum.   
  
Votive candles flicker through a crackle-gold finish holder, and miniature bottles of champagne chill in a tiny glass ice buckets.  
  
The centerpiece - an oversized trumpet vase - looms over the table, crystal beads and flowers spilling over the top, as if trying to make a run for it. Roses, Orchids, Hydrangeas, others he can't put a name to, all in shades of purple and white.  
  
"Dinner sounds good," Natalie picks up her menu.  
  
"What is it?" He skims his own while she reads aloud.  
  
"Spinach salad, followed by your choice of Filet Mignon, Seared Mahi Mahi, or Vegetarian Mélange. Also, a variety of goat cheese, toasted almonds and things I'm not motivated to pronounce. What exactly are haricot verts?"  
  
"Green beans? Don't quote me on that." He shrugs. "I could go for the filet."  As far as _about-to-die-of-a-broken-heart_ last-meals go, he could do worse.  
  
"I'm glad you said that, because that's what I checked on the R.S.V.P."

  
  
The decor at the 2003 wedding had been sleek and sharp - black and white with red accents. He remembers his mom's infectious enthusiasm, the way she'd pointed out her favorite elements and jotted down inspiration for the annual Echolls' Christmas Party.   
  
She'd teased him over dessert. "Who knows? Maybe you'll get married here someday." Pointing her spoon at him, she clarified. "Not that I'm in any hurry for you to grow up, of course. Take your time. But I can't deny that it would be fun to plan your wedding."  
  
He'd choked out a laugh. "Right up until World War III broke out between you and Celeste."  
  
"Oh honey, I don't think Lilly..." She'd broken off, and he'd glimpsed pity in her eyes - only for a second - and then she'd covered, flashing a wicked smile and squaring her shoulders. "Don't you worry about Celeste Kane. I can handle her just fine."   
  
Celeste would've steamrolled right over her, but he'd appreciated the sentiment, as well as the attention.  


What had she really wanted to say that night? What made her so sure he wouldn't have married Lilly? Motherly instinct? Had she sensed Lilly's restlessness? Witnessed inappropriate behavior? Flirting? Worse?   
  
One thing she'd seriously underestimated had been Logan's capacity to take shit lying down.  
  
_Of course,_ he would have married Lilly.   
  
It would have been a wedding for the ages. Ornate and elaborate. In her signature colors of...  
  
The concept that's been pinging the edges of his consciousness since he arrived, now clarifies and comes into focus.   
  
_Purple and gold. Lilly's theme._  
  
"Logan?" Natalie sounds concerned.   
  
He swallows. Gestures again to the table. "It's just unsettling. My wedding would have looked just like this. To Lilly."  
  
"You were engaged to Lilly Kane? Weren't you like...?"   
  
"Fifteen. When she died," he admits. "And no, we weren't engaged. Nothing official at least, but she started planning our wedding at thirteen. She had this scrapbook she'd glue her ideas into. So did Veronica, actually. And they'd scream adorably and beat me up whenever I tried to peek." He chuckles at the memory.  
  
"Really? Veronica never gave me the impression that Lilly was a romantic."  
  
"What does romance have to do with it?" He softens the words with a rueful grin. "She wanted declarations. Lillian Kane is the most beloved, the most popular, the most tasteful, and daddy's billions have nothing to do with it."  
  
"Do you think you would have married her, if..."  
  
"If Aaron hadn't bashed her head with an ashtray?" He flashes a benign smile to the nosy women on the opposite side of the table, and lowers his voice. "Yeah. I would have married her. Despite everything."  
  
"You really loved her, huh?"  
  
"I did. As much as I could at that age, when my only role models were miserable marriages and unrealistic movies. But love wasn't really the glue that held us together."   
  
The truth was - as Lilly reminded him on a periodic basis - that nobody else could ever love him. Other girls - normal girls like Veronica or Meg - would be repelled by the rotten, putrid, puss-covered parts hidden under his son-of-a-movie-star looks. The Madisons and Shellys of the world only cared about the power and name-recognition that came from being with him. Only Lilly understood the truth of him and loved him anyway, and really, who needed anything more?  
  
She was never a mean girl, and she didn't say these things to wound him. As far as she was concerned, they were the same. Two of a kind. Beautiful on the outside, but ugly on the inside. The anti-fairy tale.   
  
They were blind, clueless, babies, enabling each other under the guise of mutual acceptance. So, the ugly got uglier, and the boundaries were stretched to their limits.   
  
He still blames himself - a little less acceptance, a little less forgiveness, and Lilly might still be alive.   
  
Natalie squeezes his arm. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry you never got a chance to live that life."   
  
"I'm not." It sounds callous, so he clarifies. "Lilly Kane was a glorious forest fire of a girl, and the world is smaller without her. _My_ world is smaller. I regret that she never got the opportunity to take the planet by storm. I regret the experiences that were denied her, and to those who could have known her."  
  
"But?"  
  
"As hopeless as it is right now, I can't regret a life that allowed me to love Veronica. At least for a while. God, that sounds corny, but I wouldn't be the man I am today without her influence. And I can't regret the years of blood, sweat, and tears I devoted to earning my wings. Or my time with Carrie.  Losing Lilly made all of that possible."   
  
Natalie smiles as if she'd been leading him to this conclusion all along.   
  
"We would've divorced within the year, anyway." Logan lifts his glass in toast to Lilly - wherever the hell she is now - and knocks back the rest of his drink. "But the flameout would've been spectacular."   
  
Changing the subject, he snatches up a miniature champagne bottle. "What's this for?"   
  
"It's a wedding favor."  
  
Water droplets from melted ice cling to the frosty glass bottle making it almost too cold to hold. He switches it to his other hand, thumbing open a folded tag tied around the rose-gold foil MOET label.   
  
**Oliver and Veronica  
September 25th, 2016  
Thank you for sharing our celebration.  
**  
"Oliver?" He says in an incredulous tone. "She married some dude named Oliver?"  
  
Natalie lifts an eyebrow. "Yeah, why?"  
  
He returns the champagne to the bucket. Pouts.  "I don't know. It's just such a douchy name."  
  
She rolls her eyes. "No, it is not. You're just nitpicking."  
  
"Oliver and Veronica? They were doomed before they even got started."  
  
"And why is that?"  
  
"Their portmanteau. Couple name. Like Brangelina - and I'm _still_ devastated about that, for the record.”  He sighs, dramatically.  “Is there no such thing as love in this world anymore?"  
  
Natalie rolls her eyes. "Get to the point.  What is it? OliVeronica?"  
  
"Too complicated. I was thinking OVer."   
  
Natalie fights back a smile.  "You're an idiot."

"Clearly."  He sips from his glass of ice water. "So...have the happy couple been together long?"  
  
"Not that long." She lifts her eyes to the balcony, but the entire wedding party is out in the connecting hallway now. "It was kind of a whirlwind romance."  
  
Logan drops his voice to a whisper, "She's not...?"  
  
"No, she's not pregnant."  
  
The catering staff swarms around the long bridal table, setting out salads and bread. Between the dozen or so floral arrangements and an equal number of candles, it's a miracle they can find any room for the food.   
  
"So back to the decor. What is this?" he asks Natalie. "The beads? The flowers? The purple everything? I can't even remember Veronica ever wearing purple-anything."  He points to a gold leather, button-tufted, high-back chair sitting in the place of honor at the bridal table. "...and I'm pretty sure that's a fucking throne."  
  
"Ollie wears a lot of purple."  
  
"So she just allowed _Ollie_ to take-over her entire wedding?"  
  
"It's his wedding too," Natalie says. "And I don't think she really cares about the colors or the decorations."  
  
Logan nods, but hot embers burn in his belly. There is no time or situation in which she would _ever_ have relinquished this amount of control to him. He can't even imagine it.   
  
_And this is why she's married to Ollie, and not me. Dude must be trustworthy.  
_  
A tall, pimply guy with thick glasses and lank hair moves in, placing bread baskets on either side of their table. He circles around it efficiently, adding a salad to each place setting, before moving on to Table Twelve.   
  
Once he's out of earshot, Logan whispers. "Don't look now, but I'm pretty sure that guy used to sell me pot in high school."  
  
"From the looks of him, I'm pretty sure he smoked some before coming to work." 

"If only..."    _Damn the military's drug testing_. If ever he could use an artificial mellow, it would be now.   
  
The bread is soft and crusty, still warm enough to melt butter. He picks at his salad, pushing aside beets with the tines of his fork.  
  
Malik returns to the microphone.

 ** _"Ladies and gentlemen, at this time, we'd like to bring in our wedding party. Let's hear a nice round of applause for father and step-mother of the bride, Keith and Alicia."_**  
  
They emerge from the stairway alcove on the right, and Logan sits up taller, refusing his inclination to slouch down. Despite his accomplishments, part of him will always feel small in this man's eyes.   
  
_**"Parents of the groom, Pierce and Evelyn Nicholls."**_

A dignified man and a well-coiffed woman - both in their early sixties - step out of the left-hand alcove.   
  
"They're completely loaded, I suppose."  
  
Natalie nods. "Daddy's in finance."   
  
The guests applaud politely for _**"Bridesmaid Abbie and Groomsman Owen”**_ , **_“John and Sandra”_**. _**“Justin and Kelly”**_.  
  
_She paired those two on purpose. Oh, the hate watches we used to have.  
_  
_**"Give it up for Maid of Honor, Bridget, and Best Man, Brad!"**_  
  
Brad - exactly the kind of frat boy Veronica would've ridiculed - enters with douchy _'raise-the-roof'_ hands, while Bombshell Bridget scans the room for imperfection.   
  
"Weird," Logan says. "I assumed Wallace Fennel and Mac would be in the wedding party."  
  
"They're over there." Natalie points, and Logan leans closer in order to see around the centerpiece.   
  
Veronica's BFF's sit with Mr. Mars at the table closest to the bridal party. They speak closely, mouths-touching-ears in the manner of people who see each other naked on a regular basis.   
  
_Huh. Those two ended up together?_  
  
When he looks back down, he finds that the caterer has replaced his salad with the main course.  
  
_Sneaky ninja bastard.  Guess the cannabis hasn't dulled the dude's stealth._  
  
He sips his water and slices a piece of beef. It's delicious, but weighs as much as a bowling ball on his already-nauseated stomach.  
  
_**"And now, the moment you've been waiting for. Put your hands together for the new Mr. and Mrs. Nicholls, Oliver and Veronica!"**_  
  
Logan's mouth goes dry. _What'll it be?_ An enthusiastic puppy? A soft and pampered Duncan Kane-type?  
  
They step through the left-side doorway and his heart clenches.  
  
_Oh. Fuck. No.  
_  
Oliver Nicholls moves with arrogant grace. Several inches over six foot, his bespoke tuxedo fits like a glove. Fair skin, aquiline nose, black hair and eyes. He has that scruffy five o'clock shadow look that Logan gave up on ever achieving years ago.  
  
_Probably_ _had it tattooed on or something.  
_  
"This guy?" He says aloud. "She married this Adam Levine wannabe mother fucker? He looks like the kind of guy who'd park at a fire hydrant, toss his keys to a valet, and keep on walking."  
  
Natalie levels a stare at him. "So do you."  
  
"That's beside the point. I'm the injured party, here."  
  
Across the table, four sets of eyes stare at him (possibly five, but as long as the flower vase blocks him from sight, he'll never know).   
  
_Shit!  
_  
"I'm sorry about that. Is...Oliver...a friend of yours?"  
  
As it turns out, these are Veronica's friends from Stanford, who’ve only met the groom for the first time today.   
  
Lydia - with her got-too-close-to-the-helium voice and the jaw-length brown hair (which only emphasizes her receding chin) - was Veronica's Stanford dorm mate. Her boyfriend, Phillip - the guy behind the vase - looks in dire need of stick-up-the-ass-removal-therapy.   
  
Greta, a prematurely-graying blonde, most likely shops at farmer's markets and makes her own soap from rendered beef fat. Her eyes glint with the sort of wicked humor that Veronica would have recognized as kindred, and her clearly-devoted husband, Travis, (also a former classmate) seems like the type who would tell a great story. His tie hangs loose and his sleeves are rolled to the forearm.   
  
Shay is dark skinned, glowing bronze where the light hits her collar bones and cheeks. Long braids sweep back over her shoulders and her huge brown eyes lift slightly at the outer corners to stunning effect. She's dateless, and on any other occasion, he'd be highly tempted to rectify that situation.   
  
Natalie introduces herself, and now it's his turn.  
  
"Logan." He lifts a hand and waves. "Veronica's bitter and regretful ex who didn't make it to the church in time to object."  
  
The Stanford girls exchange meaningful glances.   
  
"She's mentioned me, I take it?"  
  
"After a few drinks," Lydia says.  
  
"And with copious usage of the word jackass?"   
  
"She may have mentioned pancake-ass. Does that count?" Greta teases. "But mostly, she spoke warmly of you."  
  
_Pancake ass? After years of military training, he'd like to see how Ollie's ass stacks up.  
_  
_**"Ladies and gentlemen, it's now time for the bride and groom to make their way to the dance floor.  It is my great pleasure to introduce you, dancing for the first time as Husband and Wife, Oliver and Veronica.”**_  
  
Natalie squeezes Logan's shoulder as Veronica and her husband move into position.  
  
Heather steps to the mic.

  
**For all those times you stood by me  
For all the truth that you made me see  
For all the joy you brought to my life  
For all the wrong that you made right  
**  
Logan's jaw drops and he shakes his head, repeatedly. "Nope. Nope nope nope nope nope."  
  
"What?" Natalie asks.  
  
"Lilly was the Celine Dion fan. She used to torture us by cranking it up and belting it out. I have vivid memories of Veronica sticking a finger down her throat and gagging over this song. She wasn't a fan."   
  
"Bridget's a fan." Natalie points to the bride's table where B-Bomb watches Heather sing with a rapt expression. "She's seen her live at least a dozen times."   
  
"The more I hear of this Bridget-chick, the more I understand how Heather could've mistaken her for the bride."  He lowers his voice.  "You think they're banging?"   
  
"No." Natalie says, forcefully cutting-off any further argument.  She picks at her food, but doesn't seem any hungrier than Logan is.  
  
"You know, this is kind of killing my appetite." He gestures to Veronica and Oliver. "Feel like taking this back to the bar?"  
  
"Thought you'd never ask," she pushes back her chair.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~

 

Most of the bar stools are occupied. Logan and Natalie take seats near the end, and order the same drinks as earlier.  
  
He tips the bartender and, turning back to his companion, finds her staring intently at the glossy white dance floor.  
  
A glowing, monogrammed letter ‘N’ meanders across the shiny surface like a drunk without a destination. Veronica speaks animatedly to her husband, while he grins and shakes his head.   
  
Like a normal, happy couple.   
  
Logan has only danced with Veronica one time – at the senior year Sadie Hawkins dance, where she hadn't been able to meet his eyes, and had clasped her own hands together to avoid touching him.   
  
Why hadn't he taken her dancing? He should've romanced her like the other guys? Why hadn't they replaced all those hurtful memories with better ones? Why hadn't he bridged the gap between them before it was too late? He's had nine years. Was she supposed to wait around for him forever? 

 _Did she wait around at all?_  
  
Air drifts across the back of his neck, and a cracking sound reaches his ears, followed by a sharp sting.  
  
He turns to Natalie, incredulous. "Did you just whack me upside the head?"   
  
"Get your shit together. No crying."   
  
"I'm not crying."  
  
"Tell that to your big shimmery hound-dog eyes." She leans in, voice dropping to a hiss. "Do you think you're the only one who's ever suffered a broken heart?"   
  
"No, but..."  
  
Her eyes drift back out to the dance floor.   
  
"Oh my god! you have a thing for him! Oliver."  
  
"No, I don't," she says. Too quickly. "I like him, but I don't have 'a thing' for him."  
  
"Yes you do. Fess up, you're as miserable about this as I am."  
  
She sighs, and shrugs. "Like it even matters, right?"  
  
Fuck! He's been so caught up in his own broken heart, he never considered that Natalie might be hurting also. Maybe even more so, as she'd been forced to sit back and watch it happen in real-time.   
  
"I've been there, you know," he says. "In love with my roommate's girlfriend."  
  
"Veronica?"  
  
He nods. "Senior year. She dumped me and got back together with my best friend. Later, after my house burned down, I moved in with him."  
  
"Why would you make that choice?"   
  
"The official story? Emancipated minor. No parents No job. No references. It was easier to move in with a friend."  
  
"And the true story?"  
  
"It was probably a form of self-flagellation. I needed that constant reminder that I'd been given everything I could ever want, and I fucked up and lost it. I needed to be punished."   
  
_Since Aaron was no longer around to do the job for me._    
  
Natalie stares at him for a long while. Measuring him. Seeing everything.   
  
_Fuck. She knows!_ He might as well hang an 'abuse survivor' sign from his neck for all he's fooling her.   
  
He turns the examination back on to her. "So did you and Oliver date before?"  
  
"No. It never moved past flirtation." She casts a wistful glance at the dance floor. "I don't think he really sees me as a woman."  
  
Logan barks a laugh, giving her a blatant once-over, noting the smooth skin and delicate bone-structure.  Her eyes are more hazel than brown, and in the right lighting have almost a golden cast.  "He would have to be fucking blind to miss that."  
  
"I'm Oliver's 'adventure buddy'. The one he can talk into zip-lining, or white water rafting, or jumping out of a plane on a whim. Just one of the guys." 

It sounds to him like the perfect basis for a relationship. With somebody other than Veronica’s brand new husband, that is.   
  
He sighs and slides an arm around her shoulders. Squeezes. "If only life were an eighties movie. Your boy would've realized his feelings for you at the last minute. Probably on his way to the church."   
  
"If only."   
  
The song slows towards its conclusion and Malik returns to the mic.

 _ **"The bride will now dance with her father. Can we get Keith Mars out here?"**_  
  
Logan braces himself for another Pod-Veronica song-choice. " _’Butterfly Kisses_ ’, or something equally nauseating, so he's pleasantly surprised when Heather and Malik kick-off a duet of Marvin Gaye and Tammy Terrell's _‘Ain't No Mountain High Enough’._  
  
Veronica and Keith mouth the words to each other alternating the male and female parts, as they lean in and out. Veronica holds up her skirt with her left hand, shimmying her shoulders, and Keith demonstrates that he's no slouch in the dancing department.  
  
Logan's heart melts, and his lips stretch wide. This is _his_ Veronica.  
_  
How am I still so in love with this woman after all these years apart?_  
  
A figure in black crosses to the opposite corner of the bar, momentarily blocking his view.  
  
_Oliver. Fucker.  
_  
Veronica's husband speaks to the bartender, who nods and grabs a rocks glass.   
  
While he waits for his drink, Oliver blatantly flirts with a brunette in a black micro-dress.  
  
Logan's eyes tighten to narrow slits. He assesses the man for obvious weaknesses, but this is no Duncan Kane or Pizcatelli. Not only is he in great shape, he looks like he could handle himself in a fight.  
  
_Do I even care? I'd gladly take a beating for the opportunity to put a fist in this fucker's face.  
_  
The asshole whispers in the brunette's ear, skimming his fingers over her bare shoulder, and she giggles as if he's fucking Aziz Ansari, or something.  
  
Natalie's hand on his shoulder is the only thing that keeps Logan on the barstool.  
  
"It's just flirting," she says in a low tone.  
  
"For now."  
  
It's in Logan's best interest to sit back and allow this guy to dig his own grave. Unless he's actually Duncan Kane with a latex mask and stilts, Veronica won’t put up with that shit.  
  
But he can't actively wish for her marriage to fail. Or any other outcome that would lead her to misery or heartbreak.  
  
_Fuck._  
  
Oliver senses his gaze and glances up, tilting his head quizzically. He notices Natalie, and his eyes soften. Pivoting on his foot, he strolls over to greet her.  
  
"Hey Nat, who's your friend?" he asks in a posh British accent.  
  
_An accent. Fuck!_ Logan's hate-on for the man triples.  
  
Natalie's smiling at the jerk, practically glowing. "This is Logan. Logan, Oliver."  
  
They shake hands, each unsuccessfully employing the squeeze-of-intimidation.  
  
Oliver regards him, scanning for weakness, much as Logan had done minutes ago. His lips spread in delight. "I know you! You're that black-widow boyfriend, right?"  
  
"I believe the correct term would be widower."  
  
"But it's you, right? The pop star a year or two back. And the heiress, a decade ago."  
  
"I wasn't even in the country when Carrie OD'd, and it was the other Echolls who-"  
  
"Don't get me wrong. I'm not calling you a murderer," Oliver raises two hands, a no-harm-meant gesture, "I'm just saying, you're bad luck to women. Wasn't there a basketball cheerleader too?"   
  
"Kendall Casablancas was never my girlfriend.  And she was murdered months after I stopped seeing her."   
  
Oliver turns to Natalie. "Nat..." He pouts.  "Do you really think you should be hanging around some guy whose girlfriends end up dead?"  
  
Logan's fists ball-up, and he hasn't wanted to hit somebody this badly in years. His jaw clenches, and his lips twist into something cruel.  "Yet somehow, I managed to keep Veronica alive. On multiple occasions, so I guess your theory is flawed."  
  
Oliver's smile widens. "Oh. You know the missus. How lovely. Old lover?"  
  
Logan crosses his arms over his chest.  
  
"Well," Oliver begins, "I suppose that explains the hostility I sensed."  
  
"You mean when you were over there?" Logan gestures with his chin. "Fondling the shoulder of a woman who wasn't your wife?"  
  
Oliver smirks. "I was merely being friendly. Nothing wrong with that."   
  
"Better not let Veronica see you being _friendly_. She's lethal when she's jealous." Logan flashes him an I-dare-you-to-ask smile. "And that doesn't explain your hostility towards me."   
  
Oliver's eyes flick to Natalie. Only for a split second, but it's enough. "What hostility?"  
  
Logan rests his arm on the back of Natalie's stool – not actually touching her, but enough to look like he is – and the man’s smarm falters.   
  
"Well, as fascinating as this conversation is, but I'd better get back. Time to dance with my mum."  
  
"One second," Logan hops off his stool. He slides an arm around Oliver’s shoulders like an old friend, taking the opportunity to lean-in close and speak under his breath. "I'm trained to kill with my bare hands. You break Veronica's heart, you'll learn the hard way."  
  
Oliver laughs, playing along, and whispers back. "Same goes for Natalie."  
  
"Glad we're on the same page."

~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~

  
Natalie is disappointed in him.  She sighs and shakes her head when he returns to his stool. 

"You realize you're both Neanderthals, right?"   
  
Logan presses his hand to his chest. "Me? Did you see—"  
  
"Do you think Veronica can't take care of herself? That she needs you to make threats on her behalf?"  
  
"Of course not. She'd rip me a new one if she found out." Logan runs a hand over his face and his throat tightens. "I've lost her. Forever. And that's devastating, but whatever that guy feels for you, it’s a lot more than 'adventure buddy'. And this is his wedding day."  
  
“Don’t be ridiculous.  We’re friends, and he cares about my well-being.”  She holds up a hand, preventing him from interrupting.  “But, for the hell of it, let’s pretend you’re right, and he does have some kind of vague feelings for me.  That’s not the same thing as cheating.”

“It’s not fair to Veronica.” 

“And Veronica’s feelings are one-hundred percent pure?  She didn’t look at you earlier like you were a big heaping plate of lasagna with four types of cheese and unlimited garlic bread?”   
  
"Damn, what a big fucking mess." Logan picks up his drink, swirling it before taking a long swallow.  

He brightens.  "It's a green card marriage, isn't it?  That would explain the..." He swirls his fingers around in a circle, not even sure where he's going with this.

"Give it up, Logan."  She gives him the old _you-poor-blind-idiot_ head shake.  "It's not a green card marriage."  

"Damn!" 

  
Next to him, a man calls out to somebody that he’ll be right there. He hops off his stool, a tap of hard-soled shoes on the floor and, breathing loudly, lumbers off. 

Another body moves into the vacated space – an arm bumping Logan on the back, a muttered _‘sorry about that’_ , and a whiff of something old school - English Leather or Old Spice. Something familiar - maybe it's what that old bastard, Grandpa Echolls used to wear.

He glances over his shoulder, and nearly ducks his head.   

_Great._

Keith Mars signals the bartender and releases a long-suffering sigh. His furrowed brow and his rigid neck telegraph stress and anxiety, and Logan almost feels bad for the guy.  Almost.   

He swivels a half-turn.  “Cheer up, Mr. Mars.  Just think, it could’ve been worse.  She could’ve married me.”

Keith turns to him with weary eyes and then does a double-take.  “Logan?” 

“In the flesh.”  

They shake hands, and Keith takes in his appearance with those same sharp, never-miss-a-thing eyes.  “How’ve you been, Logan?  Last I heard, you’d joined the armed forces.” 

“Navy.  I’m an aviator, actually.”  He loves his job title.  Loves the way it rolls off the tongue, all long vowels and teeth-against-the-lip vees.  He used to have this little private joke that he’d graduated from being ‘A Vee eater’ to an ‘aviator’, and _oh my God, why did I just think that in front of her father?_

“Like a fighter pilot?” 

“Exactly.  I’m living proof that obsessive video gaming can translate into a career after all.”

“Except, a video game can’t kill or injure you.”

“You’ve obviously never experienced Playstation thumb.”  
  
Keith shifts, towards him, leaning his forearm on the bar.  “I read somewhere that flying is one of the top ten most dangerous careers.”

“Third place, actually, but the logging industry wouldn’t have me.  Something about my pretty face devaluing their burley, mountain-man brand.  I never could grow a beard.”-

Natalie waves, slides off her stool, and sidles next to Logan. “Hello, Mr. Mars.”  

_Shit, could I be more rude?_

“Hello, Natalie.”  Keith holds out his arms, smiling with genuine warmth, and they hug.  He cocks a head at Logan.  “You here with this guy?” 

“Not _with-with_ ,” She says.  “We arrived separately, but we’re hanging out.” 

Logan pats her on the back.  “Veronica assigned the poor girl to Logan-duty, but she’s handling it like a champ.” 

“Like a champ?” She lifts one brow.  “I’ve survived sky-running on Kilimanjaro.  I think I can handle one cocky flyboy.”

Keith grins.  “That-a-girl.” 

“How about you, Mr. Mars.  Having a good time at the wedding?” 

Keith’s smile doesn’t falter as much as stiffen. 

There’s conflict to be exploited, but before Logan can probe that wound, the bartender returns with a pale brown drink. 

Keith makes a show of fumbling with his wallet, but Logan recognizes a stalling tactic when he sees one.  He waits until the other man drops the tip on the bar to ask, “So, planning any fishing excursions with the new son-in-law?”

Of course, Keith is as astute as his daughter. He shoots Logan a baleful glare. “I would, but I don’t think Oliver is the outdoorsy type.” 

“Sure he is.  Ask Natalie, here.  I believe she mentioned his fondness for extreme sports.  White water rafting, zip-lining, etcetera.”  He pauses.  “Oh.  Is Veronica doing that compartmentalizing thing again?  Keeping you on a need-to-know basis with the hubby?” 

Natalie gives him a warning frown, and mouths the words, ‘ _Be nice’_.  “I need to hit the ladies room.  Back in a few.” 

Keith waits until she’s gone, before speaking.  “Have you met Oliver?” 

“Only for a few minutes.” 

“What was your impression?”

He seems sincere enough, so Logan answers truthfully.  “Hated his guts on sight, although that could be the crippling jealousy speaking.” 

“Jealousy?”  His lips twitch.  “I never saw you as the marrying type.” 

“You never saw me at all.”  He exhales and softens his tone.  “Then again, maybe I never allowed you to.”

“Oh, I saw you, alright.  Look Logan, I know you thought I didn’t like you, or that I treated you unfairly, but surely you have more perspective now.” 

“Is this the part where we drink a toast to old misunderstandings and call it bygones?”  Logan asks, hating himself for the emotion leaking through.  “Because my almost-thirty perspective feels a lot like my teenaged perspective.  You never liked me.”

“Let’s just say you frustrated me.  That somebody with your advantages—”

“ _Advantages?_ ” Logan mentally counts back from five to keep himself from unleashing.  “I don’t know how it looked from Sunset Arms, but—”

Keith interrupts.  “I know you had a difficult childhood, and that no amount of money or influence could be worth that cost.”

Logan motions for him to continue.   

“But you had so many qualities I admire.”  He gestures, palm up.  “You’re intelligent and charming.  Persuasive enough to sell ice water at the North Pole.  You’re assertive and loyal, and prone to self-sacrifice for the people you love.  On paper, you were everything I could’ve wanted for Veronica.”

“And off?”

“You coasted, Logan, as if you didn’t have a care in the world.  You put in a measly ten-percent and brooded-away the rest of your life.  I’d rather see Veronica with a man with _half_ of the natural gifts you possess, as long as he put in one-hundred percent effort. Somebody with a passion for life.” 

“Well congratulations.  You’ve got Oliver.  Maybe someday, she’ll even let you get to know him.”     

Keith ignores the (admittedly passive-aggressive) dig. 

“Even that much I could’ve ignored.  It was Veronica’s life, and she could choose her own boyfriends.  But you were a dangerous combination of reckless and carefree.  It was only a matter of time before somebody dealt with you permanently, and what do you think that would’ve done to Veronica?  _I’d_ be the one left having to hold-her together, so you better believe I was relieved when you two broke up.  And the worst part is, that – except when it interfered with her agenda – my daughter accepted that kind of reckless behavior as perfectly normal.”

Logan rolls his eyes.  “How ever could that be?”

“What does that mean?”

“You may remember that time when Weevil Navarro brought a group of PCHers to kill me after a little blonde birdie whispered in his ear that I killed Lilly.” 

He nods.  “I remember.  What about it?” 

“That’s the one-and-only tick in my almost-murdered column.  How about you?”  He silently counts on his fingers.  “Last I recall, you were somewhere around five or six survived murder attempts.  Seems just as likely that I could’ve been the one comforting her.” 

Keith’s eyes are flinty and he stares at Logan for a long time - an _uncomfortably_ long time - then he lets out a genuine laugh.  “Touché.” 

Logan smiles back, and some of the tension dissipates. 

Keith claps a hand around his shoulder, and Logan stills.  “If it makes you feel any better, I can admit that my opinion of you might be a bit outdated.  I’m proud of you for outgrowing that ennui.”

“Don’t be.  I was dangerously close to detouring into melancholy just twenty minutes ago.  Natalie had to slap me out of it.”  He rubs the back of his head.  “It still stings a little.” 

“Don’t sell yourself short.  You’re a fighter pilot, for heaven’s sake.  That must have required an extraordinary amount of determination.” 

“Imagine my disappointment when I learned I couldn’t buy my way into a cockpit.”

Keith sips his drink.  “So how much schooling did that take?”

Logan lifts his eyes as he does the math.  “Counting college, not quite seven years, and that’s before being assigned a squadron.”

“But most don’t make it that far, right?” 

“Only ten percent of applicants make it all the way.”  Saying it aloud, drives home the enormity of the achievement, and an intense burst of pride sweeps through him.  “You seem surprisingly informed.”

Keith shrugs.  “I did a little research when I first heard what you’d done with your life.  You’ve come a long way, kid.  I’m impressed.  If I’d have known back then that you had this kind of mettle inside of you, I might have been a bit more…tolerant.” 

“I didn’t back then.  It came later – somewhere around rock bottom.  And while I’m sure Veronica’s permanent state of unavailability made it a lot easier to admit that, your approval means a lot to me.”  He lifts his glass.  “To old misunderstandings.” 

Keith chuckles and clinks.  “So..you and Veronica?  You’re friends again?”

“We haven’t had a chance to renew our blood-bonds or anything, but I’d like to be friends.  I’d like that very much.” 

Keith gives him a long, assessing glance.  “I hope you can make that work.”

Natalie returns, taking a silent measure of Logan’s mood.  He gives her an ‘all-good’ smile, and she smiles back. 

Keith checks his watch.  “Well, I’d better get back to the wife before she sends a search-team.”

“Tell Alicia Hi for me,” Natalie says. 

“Sure thing.”  He looks back before walking away.  “Good seeing you again, Logan.  Take care of yourself.” 

“Will do.”   
  
_Friends. I can do that. I WANT to do that.  
_  
As phenomenal as their sex life had once been, that's not what he misses most when he thinks of her.   
  
He's misses her humor. Her banter. Her audacity. The way she could read him like a book. Inspired him to be his best self. He misses her repertoire of fake voices, and the way she'd always catch his snaps. He just misses her.  
  
Veronica's impact on him hasn’t lessened or wavered. A thousand times he's talked to her in his head, imagining her reaction to a funny story, her unique take on situations, her insight and genius, her common sense. He's imagined her being proud of him.  
  
On the flip side, developing a friendship could be tantamount to waiting around for her. Months. Years.  
  
Could he support her through fights with Oliver without rooting for the demise of her marriage? Without subconsciously auditioning for the role of Rebound Man #4?  Would the smallest marital complaint from Veronica be a sign they were fated to end?  What kind of friend would that make him? 

 _Acceptance_.  Isn't that one of the stages of grief?  Or is it one of the twelve-steps?  Doesn't matter.  

He needs to accept the fact that she will never be the blonde-in-his-bed again.  And maybe that's okay, because - as her friend - he can tell her the stories he's saved-up for years, he can solicit her insight. He can forward her that damn video with the kitten and the RC car.      
  
"Where's your head at?" Natalie asks.  
  
He smiles.  "Just considering how I can be a genuine friend to Veronica, without ulterior motives or becoming a pathetic sap."  
  
"Try dating somebody else." It's an offhand remark, but when Logan flashes his shark grin, Natalie raises a protesting hand. "I told you earlier: Don't. Even. Think. About. It."   
  
"Come on," he teases. "You don't want to devise an elaborate plot where we pretend we're happily dating in order to conceal our broken hearts from the ones we truly love?"   
  
"Anybody ever tell you, you watch too many movies?"  
  
"Once or twice."   
  
"Well then you should already know how fake dating plots turn out." She gives him an appraising look and shakes her head. "You're pretty and everything, but you couldn't handle all of this."   
  
Logan barks a laugh. "Oh, is that so?"   
  
"You'd better believe it." Natalie flashes her dimples.   
  
The approaching swish-rustle-swish of fabric pulls Logan's focus, and he stands up.   
  
Veronica smiles - bright liquid sunshine, belying the hard, suspicious glint in her eyes. "Well you two seem to be getting along."  
  
"Like a house on fire." He lifts a fist, and Natalie bumps it.  “The good kind, that doesn’t involve jail-time, or unraveling-from-within biker gangs.”

“We’re already plotting and scheming,” Natalie says.  “Your boy here is a lot of fun.”  
  
Tight smile. "I remember."   
  
For maybe the first time ever, Logan offers a silent thanks to boot camp for instilling in him the ability to withhold his laughter.   
  
Veronica moves closer, sliding an arm around his back and giving him a playful hip check. "So you _are_ having fun?"   
  
It's the kind of gesture one uses with their oldest friends - he's seen her use it with Wallace dozens of times - but never with him.   
  
And why would she? Despite their half-assed attempt at Hearst, they’d never gotten to a place of comfortable friendship. _  
_  
He awkwardly drapes his own arm around Veronica's waist. "Time of my life. Thanks for inviting me."   
  
"I'm glad you're here."  She rubs her hand over his back, and somehow, he can't manage to summon the same moral outrage when Veronica is the one fondling the guests.  
  
"Saw your dad. We bonded."   
  
Veronica snorts. "I'd pay to see that."

“Yeah, I think he actually appreciates the whole imminent-death aspect of my career choice.”

She scrunches her nose and crosses her eyes, adorably.  
  
"Met the hubby, too."  
  
Veronica sucks air through her teeth. "I bet _that_ wasn't awkward at all. What did you think?"  
  
"Swell guy." He smiles, guilelessly.   
  
Satisfaction flickers in Veronica's eyes - so quick he almost misses it.   
  
"He recognized me. Guess he's familiar with my work."  
  
"Your work?" She tilts her head. "Flying airplanes?"   
  
"Dead girlfriends."  
  
Veronica's mouth falls open. "He didn’t!" 

Her narrowed eyes sweep the room, and if Logan internally sing-songs, _‘Oliver’s in trou-ble.  Na na na na na._ ’? Well at least he’s adult enough to keep it on the inside.   
  
He plays innocent. "In his defense, he seemed concerned for Natalie's survival odds. So maybe he was just being protective of your friend."   
  
"Yeah. Maybe."   
  
"Veronica!"  Bombshell Bridget, the Celine-loving, wedding-hijacking, BFF-of-the-groom hurries over. "Need you for a second. It's important."  
  
“GAH!”  Veronica exhales a long-suffering sigh and schools her features into something pleasant. "I'm coming.  Be right there."   
  
She steps between Logan and Natalie, meeting his eyes and curling three of her fingers around his. "Don't forget you promised me a dance."   
  
His throat tightens and he looks away, but Veronica squeezes his hand, bringing him back. "I know this can't be easy, Logan. Not with our history. Just...don't leave, okay? I really want to catch up with you."   
  
He swallows and nods.   
  
"What was that?" Natalie asks, once Veronica is out of earshot.   
  
"Veronica bending me to her will."   
  
"No, I mean the eyes." She points at her own. "The rictus grin. Did I cross some invisible line?"  
  
"Ahh. That." He nods. "You're having too much fun with me."  
  
Natalie lifts both hands, palm-up in a _WTF?_ gesture. "She asked me to entertain you."   
  
"While hoping you'd be immune to my charm."   
  
"Are you charming? I didn't notice." Natalie teases. "So...what? She thinks we're hitting it off, romantically?"   
  
Near the lobby doors, Veronica and Bridget stand side by side, surveying the room. Despite the friendly body language, the conversation appears to be intense.

 _If only to be a fly on that wall.  
  
_ "I don't know, it's been nine years." He turns back to Natalie. "I used to joke to myself that she'd taken out the 'Lifetime Ownership Plan' on me."  
  
She snorts, lifting a brow as if he'd just labeled himself a prize catch.   
  
Veronica had always reacted with extreme irritation at seeing him with other women - regardless of whether she'd tossed him out of her life or was currently involved with another man.   
  
He's psychoanalyzed it to death over the years, and never could decide if it was because he belonged to her, or if it just burned her up that he wasn't camping outside her doorstep, begging her to take him back.   
  
"She's probably just trying to avoid another Parker Lee situation," he says. "Social situations can get a bit awkward when your friend is dating your ex."   
  
"You don't say."   
  
On the far side of the stage, Oliver emerges from a stairway alcove. He pauses, scans the room, and then makes a beeline for Veronica, moving with quick, elegant strides across the dance floor. He embraces her, dances her a few steps away, and whispers in her ear.   
  
Logan sips his drink and seethes.   
  
Veronica's face lights up in a delighted smile.  _So much for Ollie’s in trouble._   She high-fives her husband and leaves, crossing to the stage, and climbing the three steps at the side.  
  
While Malik continues singing a saccharine song that should have been put out of its misery back in 2003, Heather bounces over to intercept Veronica.   
  
Bombshell Bridget joins them, handing Veronica a large bridal bouquet, and the three bend their heads in conference.   
  
The song winds down to its conclusion, and Veronica approaches the microphone. _**"Attention ladies and gentlemen, I'd like to thank you all for coming tonight."**_  
  
She's answered by polite clapping.  
  
**_"Typically, at this portion of the wedding, you would be invited to dance. We ARE going to dance, but we'd like to shake things up and get some of that other stuff out of the way, first."_**  
  
Good-natured boos ring out from several guests.   
  
_**"We also have a fun activity planned. So, at this time, we'd like for everybody - man, woman, young, old, married or single - to gather over by Justin and Kelly, and we'll get started."** _

She points straight ahead - to the area between the far side of the dance floor and the long bridal table. Two members of the wedding party lift their hands, waving people over. Four others move tables out of the way to accommodate a crowd.   
  
As the guests begin their migration, Veronica remains on stage, supervising and calling-out any stragglers attempting to sit-it-out. 

~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Logan groans, slides off his barstool and offers an elbow to Natalie. They cross the dance floor and take up places at the back of the crowd.   
  
"Mr. Echolls – _Logan_ – you're still here." The wedding planner, Lenore Weston sidles up next to him, and speaks in a husky tone.   
  
"Coercion.  Plain and simple."   
  
"I should be done here in an hour or so. Why don't we get a drink?" She tilts her head. "See where the night goes?"   
  
Logan pretends disappointment. "I'd love to, really, but I've sworn off all vices until tomorrow. For Veronica."   
  
"Shame. Well, you know how to reach me. Don't lose my card."   
  
"Wouldn't dream of it."   
  
A bridesmaid crosses their sightline and Lenore steps forward, intercepting her. "What's going on right now? We're on a tight schedule, and this - whatever it is - wasn't accounted for."   
  
"I wouldn't worry about it," the girl answers. "Veronica's just moving some of the end-of-the-night activities to the middle. She mentioned wanting uninterrupted dancing time."  
  
She walks away and Lenore sniffs her disapproval.   
  
Oliver meanwhile, has dragged a chair to the center of the dance floor, where he stands, rubbing his hands together and working the crowd.  
  
Veronica's laughter reverberates through the speakers. _**"Looks like somebody's eager."**_ She covers the mic, whispers something to Malik, and then joins Oliver at the center of the floor.   
  
Moving to sit in the empty chair, she pauses to fuss with her voluminous skirt. She calls out, "Lenore, can you come over here and give us a hand."   
  
"Certainly!" Lenore pastes-on a wide, friendly smile, while mumbling under her breath, "Do I look like a bridesmaid?"

She hurries over to the couple, and carefully rearranges the dress.   
  
Veronica sits, handing Lenore her champagne, as Oliver sinks to his knees.   
  
The band kicks-in with a bawdy burlesque tune, and Logan's stomach churns. "Yeah, I'm out of here."  
  
Natalie's hand wraps around his wrist. "You're not going anywhere."   
  
He speaks through his teeth. "Don't make me stand here and smile while that asshole paws all over..."   
  
Her grip tightens, vicelike. "You promised her a dance."  
  
"Fine!" He sounds like a petulant teenager, and he punctuates his attitude by tipping back his scotch.  Which amounts to no more than half an ounce.   
  
The asshole crawls under Veronica's dress, and Logan catches her angry puff of breath, her pinched expression, before she conceals it with an _'Oh-you-rascal_ ' grin, and playfully kicks at him. She almost loses her balance and clutches at Lenore's arm.   
  
Does this guy know her at all? While Veronica enjoyed the occasional PDA as much as anyone, she would _never_ do so in front of her dad. In fact, it weren't for Aaron's trial, Keith Mars would probably still think she was a virgin.   
  
Oliver's head pops back out. He hands something shiny to Veronica, while twirling a blue garter around a finger on his other hand.  
  
"Wait, what’s going on?  What is that?" Lenore's voice increases in volume. She takes a step back, but Veronica's hand is still fastened to her arm.   
  
"This…”  Veronica begins, rising to her feet. "…Is my badge.  Bedazzled, for the occasion.  Lenore Weston, you're under arrest for felony trafficking of a class one illegal substance."  
  
Lenore rips her arm free, and backs up another step. Two.   
  
Oliver stops her at gunpoint. He plucks a pair of handcuffs from his inside pocket, and reaches for her arm.  
  
Veronica continues. "You have the right to remain silent. You have the right to an attorney. If—"  
  
Logan can't quite explain what happens next.   
  
One moment, Oliver is twisting the wedding planner's left arm behind her back, the next, glass shatters, he's on the ground, blood streaming from his fancy aquiline nose, and Lenore has the gun.  
  
She grabs Veronica hard enough to dislocate a shoulder, and hauls her tight against her body like a human shield. 

“NOBODY MOVE!”


	2. A whisper in your ear? A piece of your cake?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've moved the second photo from Chapter One into this chapter. Take a long look at if you'd like, because there's a TON of setting detail in Chapter Two.

Like a grown-up game of 'red-light-green-light' everyone freezes.

Dread surges through Logan, an arctic wind immobilizing his feet and turning his blood to ice. What the hell is going on?

Oliver, that incompetent prick, rises to his knees, pressing a cuff to his bloody nose.

"You!" Lenore gestures with his own Glock, first to him, then to the crowd edging the dance floor. "I'm going to need you to move all the way back."

"Ms. Weston, be reasonable." Oliver stands up. "You can't possibly—”

She _can_ possibly, it turns out, and she does - pulling Veronica's head back by the hair, and making her cry out.

_Fuck. If you harm her..._

Oliver capitulates, lifting his hands, and backing-up to the carpet.

Logan clenches his jaw, torn between relief that the dude is capable of following a simple order, and frustration that he isn't trying harder to save Veronica.

He'd thought there was something "off" with Lenore earlier, now his Spidey-senses are in full tingle-mode.

There was an unspoken rule growing up, that they never discussed "that time Aaron Echolls had his ass handed to him". The day the bigger-and-badder action star arrived at their front door in a cloud of screeching brakes, melted rubber, and ripped muscles. His father, it seems, wouldn't keep his hands off his un-interested and very married co-star. Aaron's attempts to charm the man had fallen on deaf ears, his denials repudiated, and his efforts to blame the woman only enraged her husband more.

Suffice it to say, Logan recognizes the look of a cornered psychopath, and knows first-hand what they're capable of in pursuit of self-preservation.

This. Cannot. Escalate. But how can he defuse the situation? It's far too late to take Lenore up on her drink invitation.

Pushing the paralyzing fear to the back of his mind, he rallies his nerve and plows forward. Natalie follows, close on his heels.

[ ](http://imgur.com/bgEFtlo)

  


Veronica had probably intended to minimize collateral damage when she herded the guests to this side of the room. The downside, is that nobody stands between her captor and freedom.

With a glance over her shoulder, Lenore comes to the same conclusion.

She extracts her cell, fumbles with it one-handed, and pulls down the mic on her headset. "Why are you whispering? Never mind. Don't care. Drop everything and pick me up at the loading dock. It's URGENT." Not waiting for a response, she shoves the phone back into her pocket.

A woman speaks in an undertone behind Logan's left shoulder, and he picks up snippets of conversation: ' _Ten-car pile-up on the freeway '_ , _'SWAT is twenty minutes out'_ , and _'hostage negotiator hasn't answered his phone'._

Twenty minutes? So, by the time anyone gets here, Lenore will be long gone - with Veronica.

 ** _"Are y'all just gonna stand there?"_** _"_ Onstage, Malik pats down his clothing in the universal ' _where's-my-phone?'_ gesture. **_"Somebody call 911!"_**

His voice seems to break the collective spell and, as if choreographed, several dozen wedding guests draw sidearms from their jackets, thumbing off safeties with synchronized metallic _clinks._

Lenore jams her gun even harder into Veronica's back, eliciting a pained wince.

" ** _Alrighty, then, Guess y'all have this handled._** " Malik backs away from the mic stand with an incredulous shake of the head.

Had he not glanced up at Heather's boyfriend, Logan might've missed Bridget the Bombshell Bridesmaid peeking through the archway right of the stage.

_Thank fucking God!_

Bridget pivots through the doorway, gun extended, and eyes narrowed in single-minded focus. Marilyn Monroe-meets-Dirty Harry. She hugs the left wall and toes-off her heels, gaze sweeping the area, and calculating her approach with cool professionalism.

She has the sneak-up-from-behind advantage, but there's very little cover between her and Lenore. As long as she can get close enough to duck behind the first guest table, she might be able to retain the element of surprise.

Logan sighs. While he'd rarely deigned to _handle_ his lovable family psychopath, that doesn't mean he didn't know _how._

He shares a meaningful glance with Natalie, and she takes his glass from his hand. In his periphery, he sees Oliver lunging for his arm, but Natalie intercepts him, tugging him back as Logan walks out onto the dance floor.

He moves with deliberate casualness, downplaying the threat level. "What are you doing, Lenore?"

Bridget freezes in her careful approach, fixing him with a wary stare.

He ignores her, taking three more steps forward. "Why don't you let Veronica go?"

"Wish I could, Logan." Lenore shifts clockwise, keeping him in her sights. "But, this is a frame-job, and I won't go to jail for something I didn't do."

"Listen. You're too smart for this. I sensed your intelligent mind the moment I met you." He inches closer, shoving his hands in his pockets. "You could be innocent, for all anyone knows. This wouldn't be the first time Veronica's set somebody up, and this entire spectacle seems to have been arranged for the sole purpose of humiliating you on the job."

"It was!" Even in a dire situation like this, Lenore can't hide the gleam of satisfaction in her eyes. Aaron wore a similar expression when people bought-into his bullshit. "I'm the one who's been wronged here."

"You can make a strong case for that. Maybe even bring a lawsuit over this. But as long as you're holding Veronica at gunpoint, _she'll_ be remembered as the victim of the story, and any prosecutor will exploit that." He waves a hand at the gun. "If you hand that over now, and let them take you to the station, a good attorney can have you sprung in an hour. I'll even come along, if you want, and then afterward, you and I can go get that drink."

Behind her, Bridget gestures for him to keep going.

He dials the charm up to twenty, lifts one side of his mouth in a way people seem to find disarming, and takes a gamble. "Who knows? Maybe you'll convince me to reconsider my boycott on vice."

Most women would recognize this as the ploy that it is, but he's willing to bet she won't. In addition to his first-hand experience, he's read up a bit on the subject of psychopaths. They're too convinced of their own superiority. That they're too clever to be out-maneuvered. Rejection is merely a sign that they're using the wrong manipulation tactic, and a different approach is required. A psychopath would never find their own irresistibility surprising.

They watch each other in silence for several long seconds, then the corner of Lenore's eyes crinkle. Amused. Interested.

_Score._

"You _really_ don't want to take Veronica hostage, anyway. She's obnoxious, and over-critical, and by the time she's done with you, you'll need years of therapy and will _beg_ the cops to take her back." He moves forward.

It's too soon and, spooked, Lenore takes a backward step. "I don't want any of this. It's a mistake."

He presses his hands to the back of his head, a gesture implying brainstorming with the added benefits of displaying his empty hands, while accentuating his biceps and pecs. Faking a sudden flash of insight, he says, "Hey, you should take me instead. I'm calm, good-natured, and I'd be a lot more fun as a hostage."

Lenore sizes him up, tempted.

"Tell her, Veronica." Logan makes eye contact for the first time. "Tell Lenore how entertaining I am."

Veronica snorts her derision. "Sure, he's fun - if you're into erectile dysfunction, severe body odor, and never having orgasms."

_Dammit, Veronica!_

Lenore looks between the two of them, reassessing their relationship to each other.

So much for charm and seduction. He's going to lose her.

He switches tactics. "Then there's the fact that I'm loaded. Barely made a dent in my dad's fortune. So you could ransom me to fund your getaway."

Dollar signs dance in Lenore's eyes as she pretends to decide. He has her. Thirty more seconds of distraction, and Bridget can make her move.

"Get out of the way, asshole! This is a police matter." Raise-the-Roof-Brad grabs Logan by the shoulder and shoves him backward toward the crowd.

Ignoring Bridget's frantic signals to stand-down, Brad and four undercover bridesmaids spread out, firearms drawn with clear intentions to surround.

"STAY BACK!" Lenore's nostrils flare and her eyes flick left-right-left-right like an unbroken stallion. She presses the gun to the side of Veronica's head. "Don't make me shoot her. All of you! Drop your guns." She clicks off the safety.

Logan curls his hands into fists, heart battering against his breastbone, and body paralyzed. So much for the military training sparing him from ever feeling helpless again?

_I've only just found her again._

The wedding party - now hovering at the edges of the dance floor - looks to Bridget for guidance.

_Idiots!_

Lenore glances over her shoulder, visibly startling to find Bridget so near. "YOU! Get over with the rest."

"No." Bridget takes a shooting stance.

"You're willing to jeopardize your friend's safety?" Lenore's voice wobbles, self-control deteriorating quickly.

"Veronica's body can shield you from them..." Bridget points to the horde of cops. "...or from me. But not both. If you hurt her, I will shoot you." Nevertheless - after instructing the others to give Lenore space - she backs away. Almost all the way to the corner.

Logan would've preferred for her to block the exit, but the potential for violence is too great.

_Think, Logan!_

He's lost his window for manipulating the woman, and he can't attempt another head-on attack without cop intervention.

Only surprise and stealth will resolve this. He needs to disarm Lenore before she ever sees him coming. To get the drop on her. Bridget had the right idea, and she might've succeeded if she'd waited out-of-sight for Lenore to come to her.

A quick glance around the ballroom tells him there's no easy solution.

There isn't enough room on his right for the go-wide-and-circle-behind approach - not to mention, hugging the right wall would force him through the magenta puddles of light spilling from a row of decorative panels.

Circling left would provide more cover among the tables and the bar. He could conceivably make it three-quarters of the way around without being seen. The sticking point would be the last twenty-five percent: the blindingly white dance floor.

He pulls his cell from his pocket, opens Google Maps.

"You tried your best, kid," An ashen-faced Keith Mars moves in on his right, tendons standing out on his neck. "Thanks for that."

"I haven't even _begun_ to try." Logan does a search for the hotel, zooms in, and switches to satellite mode.

Keith leans in, joining him in analyzing the overhead view. "Won't work. Even if you ran all the way, you'd never make it around in time."

The Sapphire Hotel complex consists of three large buildings, beachfront amenities and a strand of luxury cottages. Logan had paid little attention earlier, failing to notice that - beyond the water features and elaborate, multi-level landscaping - the larger buildings were all connected at ground-level.

He mentally backtracks to his arrival. When he'd entered through the loading dock door, the kitchen had been immediately on his left. The hall had continued another fifteen feet or so, opening up to a large round alcove featuring a circular staircase, then narrowing again for five or six feet, ending in the open archway.

He pulls up the hotel's website on his phone, fat-fingering several useless links in his haste to find an interior map. Keith places a calming hand on his shoulder. Steadies him.

The site does contain floorplans - to four ballrooms, two restaurants, a bar, and the presidential suite. Unfortunately, they're not shown in relation to each other, thus can offer no guidance on how to get around to that dock.

They've got one thing going for them. Caught between Bridget and the cop horde, and with Veronica's dead-weight, utter lack-of-cooperation, Lenore's backward progress has been severely hampered.

His mind returns again to the spiral staircase, a pointless dead end.

If only the two opera balconies flanking the stage were connected by a hallway like the four behind him. Then, he could run up the stairs on the left, and come down the right-hand set behind Lenore.

They're not, though. He knows, because he stood up there with his mother during that long-ago wedding. Before stepping through the balcony doorway that night, he'd paused at the top landing, looking down at the stage. He remembers this, because he'd felt a bit guilty for scoping-out Tony Bennett's luxurious hair in search of concealed bald spots. He hadn't found any, and had prayed that the good-hair gene might run in his own family.

_Had there been...? Maybe?_

"Catwalk," he whispers.

"What's that?" Keith asks.

"There might be a catwalk." He nods over at the stage. "Hidden between that crisscrossed set of curtains and the background."

"How are you going to get onstage undetected?"

"Don't have to." Logan points to the left doorway.

Keith looks dubious.

"It's my only shot." He slips out of his suit jacket, draping it over the nearest chair.

"Logan? Be careful."

Logan nods, taking a step backward. And another.

Slipping into shadow, he navigates at a crouch past the bar, weaving through the tables. He makes it to the left-side arch without incident. Once through - not daring to risk the echoes of heavy footfalls on iron stairs - he spreads his legs, using the outer beams to ascend. Round and round, all the way to the top.

_FUCK!_

Where the railing used to be, he finds a wall with a small wooden access panel. It's locked, of course, but as luck would have it, he'd once dated a teenaged private eye with selective morality. Occasionally, when bored, she would teach him things.

Logan pops the latch with an old Starbucks gift card from his wallet, silently easing the hatch open. He's leaner than most, but he still holds his breath as he wiggles through the cramped opening.

The original railing still remains on this side of the wall. Below, Malik embraces a visibly-frightened Heather. The other band members are bundled together, watching the drama unfold. From this angle, only a sliver of the dance floor is visible, but he can make out Lenore's head and Veronica's dress, and he's running out of time.

There is no catwalk.

_Fuck fuck fuck!_

There's a solution here, but it makes his heart pound and his balls pull up to his throat.

If this were for anybody else, he would turn back and come up with a new plan. Instead, he climbs over the railing. Clinging tightly, he shifts around so that only his heels touch solid ground. He breathes in and hops onto a nearby decorative ledge.

The light rigging now hangs above him like four metal ladders, connected along their sides to form a square.

_I am Logan Echolls - fourth grade King of The Monkey Bars. Undefeated champion, no matter how many times Brock Mathers and his brat pack challenged me._

He misses by inches on his first jump, by centimeters on his second. On his third attempt, he catches one of the zig-zag rungs.

He hangs, waiting and listening for sounds of creaking. The rigging stretches out before him for what seems like miles, and his palms burn from the friction of metal on skin. Maybe because he's twice as heavy as a fourth grader. Suddenly, it makes sense why gymnasts powder their hands so much.

Every instinct tells him not to do this. Too risky. It's a long drop, and a dead Logan is of no use to Veronica. Anyway, if the framework gives way under his weight, he wants a fighting chance of grabbing the background curtain on the way down.

He swings his legs up, hooking his ankles around the rungs. Using leverage, he manages to wiggle around until he's above the structure, straddling it. He considers crawling across on his hands and knees, but can't afford to waste extra seconds.

Exhaling, he pushes himself upright, wobbling a little, and overcorrecting.

 _Fuck._ Oliver or Natalie should be up here. They're the extreme-sports, zip-lining, adrenaline junkies. He's just...

_The guy who flies fighter jets at forty-five thousand feet. The guy who practiced his Matrix-poses on the edge of the world's third-deadliest suicide bridge. What's a drop like this in comparison?_

No, he's never been afraid of death. Not his own death. But Veronica's life wasn't on the line in any of those situations. That's the difference tonight.

_Suck it up, Echolls._

He can see a few additional feet of dance floor from this angle. Lenore is nearly to the door, only Bridget's presence off to her left tempering her pace. The crowd has edged close enough that those in front are visible - the wedding party, Natalie, and Keith Mars, who watches him with worried eyes.

Logan lifts his wrist and taps at an imaginary watch.

Keith nods at the signal, raises his hands, and steps forward, wailing, "Ms. Weston, I'm begging you to let my daughter go!"

Logan can't hear Lenore's response, but she gestures with the Glock to back up.

Instead, Keith drops to his knees, twining his fingers together and putting on a performance so hammy even Aaron would be jealous. "I'm begging you, please don't take my little girl from me!"

Logan plants his feet on the two outer corners of the rigging and screws up his courage.

He can do this. His balance is excellent, and he's survived harder. He takes a step, placing his right foot at the intersection of beam and a rung. Repeats the process with the left foot.

Foot after foot, he makes his way along the structure. Slowing his heart rate through 8-count respiration, he inhales the scents of iron, baked dust, and musty velvet.

He tries to tune out what's happening below, but catches snippets of Keith's howls. _'Raised her as a single father!',_ _'She's all I have!',_ and, _'Take meeeeeee instead!'_

The rigging wiggles and creaks and he can't shake the image of Judd Nelson crashing through the ceiling in The Breakfast Club.

_What was that joke again?_

Logan mutters under his breath. "A naked blonde walks into a bar with a poodle under one arm and a two-foot salami under the other. She lays the poodle on the table. Bartender says, 'I suppose you won't be needing a drink.' Naked lady says..."

_"What the fuck is that?"_

There's an opening at the center of the wall, concealed by the thick background curtain, and visible only from above. No wider than a coat closet, electrical conduit runs through this channel into a fuse box, and down at stage-level is what looks like the top of a human head. Straight brown hair with a center-part.

_What the...?_

Logan bites his lip to keep from laughing, not quite certain whether his amusement is genuine or manic.

C _an this night_ **_get_** _any more ridiculous?_

The person behind the curtain doesn't appear to sense Logan looking down on them.

Malik, on the other hand, stares up at him, eyes wide. Heather shifts her head, curious to see what's captured her boyfriend's attention, but he prevents her from turning, kissing her cheek, and pulling her face into his chest. He strokes the back of her hair, gesturing for Logan to hurry-up with his free hand.

_Meltdown averted. Thank you, man. I owe you!_

Logan makes it to the end without any more mishaps. He reverses the process - kneeling, maneuvering around the outer edge, and then underneath the structure, before dropping lightly onto the first ledge.

He misjudges his jump to the railing, and for one heart-stopping moment, he dangles by his left arm.

Much like his shoulder joint, his pulse threatens to rip free from his throat, and while he might survive the two-and-a-half story drop, he's likely to break many (or most) of his bones.

Stretching out his right hand, he fumbles until his fingers find purchase, then pulls himself up and over the railing.

The access panel opens by a knob from the inside. After squeezing through, Logan creeps down the stairs, step-by-silent-step, peering through the ornate design.

Lenore is mere inches from the archway, still yelling demands. "Back away from the doorway. Once I cross the threshold, if I see anybody's face, I'll shoot."

Keith wails again, "Please don't take my daughter away!"

Lenore ignores his plea, as she backs through the arch. "Nobody leaves this room until a count of sixty. If anybody follows me, I'll take it out on Veronica."

Six feet from the ground, he climbs over the railing, crouching down and allowing the metalwork to provide a small amount of cover. From here, he has the choice of kicking the Glock from her hand, or simply pouncing.

Lenore wraps a thick hunk of Veronica's hair around her hand, solidifying her grip.

"Stop! That hurts!"

"Stop pulling, and it won't." Lenore straightens her arm, pointing the gun through the doorway.

Logan tenses, preparing. Another seven feet or so...

Eyes spitting fire, Veronica twists her body away, bending forward at the waist and leaning-in to loosen the strain on her scalp.

Her large flower bouquet still dangles from the ribbon tied around her wrist, and she grasps the stem, wrapping her fingers around it.

_Stay still, Veronica, just a few more feet, and I'll have her._

Lenore's gaze remains fixed on the doorway, her gun hand never wavers, but she chuckles. "What do you think you can do, Mrs. Nicholls - if that's even your name - take me down with roses and orchids?"

She has a point. Even the thorns are wrapped in ribbon, so it's not going to do a whole lot of damage.

Veronica's of a different mindset. "That's _exactly_ what I think." She shoves the bouquet into Lenore's belly.

The unmistakable _skrrrich_ sound of electricity follows and Lenore slumps to ground, right arm falling to her side.

Veronica kicks the gun away, and stands over her like a come-from-behind prize-fighter. A telescoping Taser protrudes from the center of the bouquet. She pokes Lenore in the stomach, zapping her again. "And _that_ is why I insisted on using my _own_ florist, bitch."

She rolls Lenore over, securing the second handcuff, and just like that, it's all over. She shouts over her shoulder, "All clear!"

Oliver, the bridal party, and a handful of other cops charge through the doorway, halting at the sight before them.

Logan straightens, hops the railing, and takes a seat on the stairs, where he's out of the way.

"As I was saying earlier," Veronica begins, "You have the right to remain silent. You have the right to..." She pauses, reaching down to pluck the Glock off the floor and handing it to Oliver. "Fuck it. _You_ Mirandize her. I'm out of breath."

"Whatever you say, Mars."

"And don't let her take your weapon this time, idiot."

She saunters around the back curve of the staircase, hair escaping willy-nilly from her formerly-elegant updo, and grinning as if she'd known Logan was crouched there all along.

"Leave it to you to practice your parkour skills in the middle of a crises." She rolls her eyes and shakes her head.

"Parkour?" He touches his chest in a _'who, me?_ ' gesture. "Sorry, you're not going to find me leaping rooftops anytime soon, but if the circus ever needs a tightrope walker, I'm their man."

A dirty gleam sparks in Veronica's eyes. "I think the circus could find better uses for your talents."

"Oh yeah?" His lips pull wide.

And.

Right.

On.

Cue.

Bridget pokes her head through the doorway. "Mars! You're needed."

"Be right there, Captain Adams!" Veronica sighs, touches Logan's knee, apologizing with her eyes, and leaves to put out the fire.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Logan stands, brushes-off the back of his pants, and heads back toward the ballroom.

Lenore exhibits remarkable composure, for someone being held by three plainclothes detectives. She catches his eye as he passes. "Sorry Logan, I guess we'll have to skip that drink. Some other time?"

He continues to the doorway before turning around and shrugging. "Quoth the raven..."

Her eyes tighten. "Don't. Say. It."

He smirks, sweeping his hand out dramatically. "...Nevermore."

Lenore sighs, gaze lifting to the sky, and then turns to one of the officers. "Just take me to jail and lock me up, already."

There's no sign of Veronica or Bridget in the ballroom. A severe-looking woman inspects Oliver's busted lip, and nearby, Raise-the-Roof-Brad and Kelly, the bridesmaid speak in hushed tones.

_"It's not good, to be honest. We rounded-up the rest of the conspirators, but without Cabo, the case might fall apart."_

_"Nobody's seen him?"_

_"No. There was no sign of him in the kitchen or anywhere else in the hotel. He must have gotten-wind of things right before they went down."_

Logan laughs aloud. "Lose something?"

Brad turns slowly, belligerent. "What's it to you?" And then, as an aside to Kelly, "Who the hell _is_ this dude?"

Pivoting on the ball of his foot, Logan strides over to the stage, jogs up the steps, and skirts around the still-huddled-together band. He moves on silent feet to the back wall, flinging open the background curtain and revealing...

_My high school pot dealer?_

The man blinks, eyes owlish behind his thick glasses. He raises a small can, finger on the trigger.

Logan swats it away. "Mace? You were going to fucking mace me?"

Cabo shoves at him with both hands.

Logan's training kicks-in. He shifts Cabo's center of gravity, leverages his elbow, and rolls him onto his stomach. Kneeling on the man, he brutally yanks his arms behind his back.

"A little help here?" he calls out, scanning the crowd.

Brad pulls a pair of handcuffs from his inner pocket, but Oliver plucks them from his hand, and jumps up on the stage.

"Nice takedown, Asshole," he says as he snaps on the cuffs on Cabo's wrists.

"Any time, Fuckface." Logan starts to walk away, and then turns back, snatching Veronica's blue garter from where it encircles Oliver's bicep. "I'll just make sure this gets back to where it belongs."

~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Fresh drink in hand, Logan climbs the stairs to the stage-left balcony. Or stage-right, he supposes, in theater terms.

Below, under the supervision of Bridget and Oliver, uniformed officers corral Lenore, Cabo, the catering staff, and several hotel employees. A quick conference takes place, and the prisoners are led off toward the loading dock.

Logan refused to consider it during the crises, couldn't allow himself to entertain even a glimmer of hope. But Veronica's safe now. Does this mean she's still single? Is there a chance for them after all? God, the way she looked at him earlier....

Jasmine perfume wafts in from behind and he grins. "I was wondering when you'd show up."

Natalie moves up to his right. "I'm trying to decide if you're insane, or just take a very long time to fall out of love."

"I dated Veronica. So obviously..."

"Both?"

"Both."

"Yeah, I figured." She gazes out over the room, searching. _For Oliver?_

"You knew the entire time, didn't you?"

Small nod. "I did."

"But you let me sit there all broken-hearted, bitter, and bitchy. Needlessly, as far as I can tell."

"It was up to Veronica to tell you," Her mouth lifts on one side with an apologetic tilt. "But I did, in my own way."

"How so?"

"I kept you here. I kept you sober. And I kept you from running-off with the first bimbo to flash you come-hither-eyes. As well as the next dozen."

"Why?" He half-turns to face her. "Why try so hard?"

Amusement plays at her lips. "Aren't unflappable people the worst?"

"I'm going to need a bit more context?"

"I love Veronica. She's the sister I never had, but the girl is Un. Flappable."

"I find her to be very flappable." He strokes his chin. "And flippable. You can even make an argument for floppable, but those are something different, altogether."

She smiles, eyes shifting to memory. "I used to wonder if she was gay. Or maybe asexual."

Logan almost chokes. "What?"

"Gorgeous men were lining up to take her out, and she'd come home from these dates completely unmoved. Almost bored with the whole process."

"Not bored, hyper-focused on her cases." He'd never witnessed Veronica in casual dating situations, but Natalie's description recalls his own observations of Veronica's time with Duncan (who'd always seemed content with her level of engagement). Less so, with himself. Probably because he was sketchy enough to _be_ one of her cases. "What changed your mind?"

"Six months or so after we moved-in together, I was watching the red carpet for one of the music award shows. I can't remember which one, but you were there. With Bonnie Deville. Or...?" She trails off.

"Carrie," he supplies.

"Yeah." Nod. "Veronica breezed-in with the mail, caught sight of the television, and just froze. I pointed out that you and Bonnie seemed really sweet."

"Sweet?" He scrunches his face.

"You know, the touches and the kisses, but that was Veronica's reaction, too. She informed me that you were a jackass with anger issues who thinks random sex is the answer to all of life's problems."

Logan winces. "So, that's how she really feels."

"But that's just it." Natalie clutches his arm. "She may have been ranting, but she was staring at the TV with these big moony heart-eyes. That's right about when she developed her sudden taste for tabloids and entertainment shows."

 _Damn._ He'll never regret his relationship with Carrie, but he should've known better than to have gone public with it.

"To answer your question, she took it back later. Explained that she'd been caught off-guard, and that you had plenty of positive qualities as well. I figured I'd withhold judgement until I met you for myself."

"And?"

"You're a stand-up guy, Logan. I like you. A lot. More importantly, I've only glimpsed you and Veronica together, but it was as if there was nobody else in the room. My instincts tell me you two are the real deal." She lifts a shoulder in a take-it-or-leave-it gesture. "I love my friend. And my wish for her is to stop observing life from the outside, and start living it."

"So...Oliver? Nothing more than a ruse?"

Natalie laughs. "She can't stand the guy on a good day. She's single."

"If I were to give you my number, think you could convince her to call me?"

"Convince her yourself." She points down to the lobby door, where Veronica is hugging her father.

A sudden warmth sweeps through Logan's body. "What's she doing here? I thought she left with the prisoners. Doesn't she have a stack of paperwork to fill out?"

"Captain Adams - Bridget - is handling it."

Veronica thumps her dad on the back, and then marches over to the stage, where the band members sit, legs dangling over the edge. "Is the mic still on?"

"We haven't changed anything," Heather says.

"Awesome." Veronica climbs onto the platform, walks over to the microphone, taps on it. **"Hello, everyone. I'd like to begin by apologizing for that little mishap. Although we'd planned for the safety of our guests, we never accounted for my idiot partner being stripped of his gun."**

The guests boo Oliver good-naturedly, some of them pointing. He laughs and throws up his hands dramatically.

Veronica continues. **"For the few-dozen of you who are not cops - the dates, family, and friends, let me state firmly for the record that what you witnessed today was entirely false. Oliver and I are not married. The license was fake, and the minister was an actor."**

Somebody in the crowd shouts "You got off lucky!"

 **"Trust me, I know that."** She points to the speaker. **"Finally, we have a band, a room, an open bar, and at least one-hundred of San Diego's finest. I believe I promised you dancing."**

A cheer erupts from the room, and even the band looks excited as they scramble back to positions.

Veronica doesn't exit the stage, though. She peers out at the room, shielding her eyes from the light. **"Logan Echolls,"** she says. **"Has anybody seen Logan Echolls?"**

"Up here!" Natalie shouts, holding up his arm.

Veronica twists right, a relieved smile spreading across her face. She points up at him. **"You sir, promised me a dance. I'd like to collect now."**

Logan grins back, and makes as if to vault over the railing.

 **"The stairs, you idiot,"** Veronica says with a choked laugh. **"I can wait a few extra seconds."**

~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~

He hurries down, and when he emerges from the archway, she's standing right in front of him.

"So, hey," she begins in a conversational tone, "I know it's short notice and everything, but I have this wedding thing tonight..." Crinkled nose. Exaggerated eye roll. "...And I was wondering if you would like to be my date?"

"Depends. Will I be expected to put out? I have a certain image of purity to maintain."

She pretends to think it over. "It's negotiable."

Veronica holds out her hand, palm up - pretty standard for two people preparing to dance - yet, the gesture feels symbolic. Like she's claiming him before family and friends, much like he'd done eleven years earlier at Aaron's I'm-an-attention-whore-but-let's-pretend-you're-here-for-my-son surprise party.

He entwines his fingers through hers, smirking at the familiar chill of her skin. She's always been the cold to his hot, yet the contact warms him in ways he can't express.

She leads him to the empty dance floor and turns around, biting her lip.

Is Veronica Mars nervous? He sure as fuck is.

"You look..." Her eyes travel over his body. "Wow!"

"So do you." She's cleaned-up since the hostage situation, and her hair falls in shimmering waves around bare shoulders just begging to be kissed. Her skin gleams under the lights, and she stares at him with soft, alluring eyes. "You've never looked more beautiful, Veronica."

This seems to catch her off-guard, and she glances away, a hint of flush in her cheeks.

She's always been his ideal, yet he can't remember ever verbalizing his admiration in terms stronger than "hot".

_God, I was a shitty boyfriend. Should've told her every day._

Onstage, the band huddles, while Heather, playing quarterback, whispers and gesticulates. They come to some kind of consensus, nodding in agreement, and moving back to their respective instruments.

It's only a dance, yet his mouth is dry and his pulse flutters. He's known for being relatively smooth, but no woman has ever robbed him of his chill like Veronica Mars. He'll find some way to humiliate himself - assuming this means something it doesn't, holding her too tightly, springing an unfortunate erection - somehow, this will turn into a disaster.

As the piano notes coalesce into something recognizable, Logan palms Veronica's waist, tugging her closer. To be safe, he leaves space between their bodies, lowering their clasped hands to the side at chest height. Veronica rests her free hand on his bicep.

They rotate in slow circles and, unlike their last dance, Veronica looks him in the eye. She doesn't clench her jaw, nor does she shy away from touching him.

Her perfume is new. A dangerous blend of smoke and spice with vanilla undertones. It curls around him, enfolds him, beckons him into her web.

"I'd love to see you in your uniform, someday." Veronica smooths her hand over his left lapel. "Always did have a thing for the sailors."

"Ahhh...but there are so many. Dress whites. Summer Whites. Flighhht-suits." He bobs his eyebrows, drawing out the first syllable of last word, and she makes a tiny _mmm_ sound in her throat. "I'll have to arrange a private fashion show."

"Wouldn't miss it."

Her gown feels silken and airy against his fingers, her figure delicate. How had he forgotten this feeling - this dissonance between her birdlike frame and her immense personality?

Malik picks up the mic, his voice reverberates, warm and rich like quality espresso.

**"Oh...my love. My darling, I've hun-**

**gered for**

**your touch.**

**A long**

**lonely time."**

Logan tips back his head, silent laughter rumbling through his chest. He lifts his hand from Veronica's back, giving Heather a thumbs-up.

"What's so funny?"

"She really can't help herself." He shakes his head. "My roommate, Heather."

Veronica sneaks a peek at the stage. "Have you known each other long?"

"Going on a decade. You met her once, you know."

"Me?" She takes a longer look. "I don't think so. She looks very...young?" Both sides of her mouth turn down in a _'no-insult-intended'_ expression.

"Think back. 2007. Maybe a week or two after our final breakup, we had that awkward encounter at the Grand."

"Awkward encounters were kinda our thing. I'm going to need a few more details."

"In the elevator. You were with that Ratner dude."

"Okay...it's starting to come back. Were you dressed in a ratty bathrobe and refusing to look at me?"

"Yeah, well I was a bit preoccupied, trying to telepathically convince the ground to swallow me whole, so..."

"Why?" She answers her own question. "The little girl! That was the same day, right? She was wearing my shirt and pleading your case."

"Hence, the humiliation."

"I remember a music dedication. Her doing, I suppose?

"What? You can't see me choosing the most pathetic, sad-sack boy-band song to express my regrets?"

"For wallowing in private? Definitely. Owning up to it publicly? Not so much. I assumed there was a good story there. The kid was cute. In a manic sort of way."

Logan rotates them clockwise, and nods his head up at the stage. "Heather Button. Still cute, still manic, and still playing musical-matchmaker."

Veronica squints, trying to peel back the years. "And now the pieces fall into place."

"Yup. I was lured here tonight under false pretenses."

"But you stayed." She runs her free hand up his arm, curling it around his shoulder.

"Also, under false pretenses." To soften the accusation, he lifts their clasped hands, drops a kiss to her knuckles, and presses them against his heart.

Veronica's gaze lowers to his mouth. She gives a little shiver, closes her eyes, and opens them again. "I see her taste in music has improved. So...you said she's your roommate?" Her voice is hesitant, and he speaks _'Veronica'_ well enough to know that her real question is, 'Are you sleeping with her?'.

"For now, I've been staying in her spare room for the past month or so, while I look at real estate."

"Here? In San Diego?"

"Yeah, I was just reassigned back to Coronado."

A grin spreads across Veronica's face. She glances away, almost flustered, and her smile widens.

"You're glad I'm home," he teases. "You've missed me."

"Eh..." She shrugs, playing it casual, "I miss you at the strangest times. Like when I land an absolutely amazing zinger and nobody notices. I'll think to myself, 'If Logan was here, he would catch that easily."

"One-handed."

Veronica splays her fingers, curling them around the edge of his shoulder blade. "That goes without saying. The other one would probably be inching up my skirt."

He barks out a laugh. "Nothing like having somebody on the same wavelength."

"We OWNED that wavelength. It has our flag and everything."

He visualizes a flag - four red letters on a white background. Crooked 'O'.

Her eyes take on a rare vulnerable cast. "I have...regrets, Logan."

"Veronica, we don't have to—"

"Time and distance." She cuts him off, dropping her eyes down to their clasped hands, tracing her thumb over his knuckles. "It has a way of separating the things that mattered most from the utterly forgettable." She looks back up. "Just so you know, you mattered, Logan."

"You mattered to me, too." His throat constricts, and he tries to swallow. "So, Natalie mentioned you may have read some tabloid articles about me, and I just want you to know—"

"Read?" She cuts him off, scrunching up her nose indignantly. "Nobody reads tabloid articles. I only bought 'em for the pictures. Seems, the years have been kind to _some_ body."

"Oh?" He tilts his head.

She smiles. "I'm so glad you stayed."

"I'm glad I stayed, too," Logan makes arc-patterns on her waist with his thumbs. "My parkour skills were getting a bit rusty."

Veronica rolls her eyes and gives him light smack on the back. "It's kind of like...synchronicity. I've been thinking about you lately. A LOT."

"Of course, you have."

"Oh really?" She lifts one brow in challenge.

"Yeah. I mean, you were planning Lilly Kane's wedding. I would be the obvious choice of consort."

Veronica lets out a delighted laugh. "I knew you would recognize the clues! Or at least I hoped you would. I spent half the night worrying that you'd leave before I could explain."

"It was a bit conspicuous. I almost choked when you used Celine Dion for your bridal dance, but then Natalie kept convincing me that Bridget chick had taken over your wedding. Which also seemed un-Veronica-like."

"Natalie is a pro. But Logan," She cups the side of his face, demanding eye contact. "I never imagined you as Lilly's groom. She didn't need one. Her existence was reason enough to celebrate her."

"Oh...."

_So then why...?_

"And I don't consider you Lilly's man, for the record." She dares him with her eyes to argue and when he doesn't she relaxes. "Maybe I felt guilty after our first kiss, but that second time? That was a choice. We chose each other, and right around then was when I started thinking of you as mine."

He's a bit light-headed, and it takes effort to keep his tone casual. "Yeah? And when did you stop?"

She meets his eyes, gives him a rueful smile, and lifts one shoulder in a shrug.

Warmth radiates through Logan's body, and his heartbeat drums in his chest.

 _Fuck playing it cool._ He slides his hand from her hip to her lower back, pulling her body tightly against his own.

Veronica presses her face to his sternum, inhales, and settles her cheek against his heart. Her hands curl around his shoulders in an underhand grip, scrunching the fabric of his shirt.

Lowering his face, he breathes in her hair - the past, the future, coconut, pineapples and happiness. He caresses her back, down, over the tiny buttons, splaying his outer fingers over the upper swell of her ass.

On the other side of the dance floor, Natalie sways in Oliver's arms. His eyes are closed, and he runs his hand over the back of her hair with an unexpected tenderness.

He glances up, meeting Logan's gaze, and they take a moment to flip each-other the bird, before mutually returning their focus to much more important matters.

The music swells. Malik croons.

**"Time goes by**

**so slowly.**

**And time can do so much.**

**Are you....**

**still minnnnnnnnnneeeee".**

"Well?" Veronica raises her head. "Are you?"

"Am I what?" He chuckles. "Still yours?"

"Yeah."  She bites her lip.

Logan lifts his eyes to the sky and shakes his head in mock disappointment. "And they say there are no dumb questions."

Veronica's face splits into that can't-be-contained smile. She pulls him close again, her cheek soft against his.

He runs his hands up and down her back, finally working up the nerve to touch the bare skin of her upper back.

She inhales softly, inching closer and realigning their hips so that her leg is slightly between his.

"Veronica..." That's all. He has no more words.

"Logan..." She whispers. Her cheek brushes his, her temple, her nose. She holds him tight, fists his shirt.

He squeezes his eyes shut, and breathes in the moment. The song, the girl, the dance.

If he had any doubts before, they're gone now. This is happening. Again.

_You've been given a miracle shot dumbass, don't fuck it up again._

~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~

The song ends, and Logan waits for some kind of signal, his confidence already beginning to wane.

What now? Stick close to Veronica? Get her phone number and exit before he overstays his welcome? Throw her over his shoulder and carry her off to somewhere they can be alone and talk?

_Don't be ridiculous. She asked you to be her date. It's safe to assume she's not in a hurry to get rid of you._

The band launches into some Adele song or another, and Veronica pulls away. "Thirsty?"

He half-smiles. "You could say that."

"C'mon." She slides her arm around his lower back, and it's only polite to reciprocate.

"As much as I love your tribute to Lilly, was all of this necessary?" He sweeps out his free hand, indicating the whole of the reception. "Was...I don't know...posing as a buyer a little too low-concept for you?"

Veronica snorts. "If only it were that easy. We've been trying to nail these assholes for eighteen months now. I'm starving. Let me grab something to eat, and I'll explain everything."

Somebody had the foresight to set up a dessert table while they were dancing, and she veers toward this now.

Confections of every variety spread out at varying heights and levels. Next to Veronica's voluminous gown, it's like something out of a Marie Antoinette fantasy.

He's never actually  _had_ a Marie Antoinette fantasy, but he probably will now.

"For drug dealing scum, they sure knew what they were doing in the kitchen." She takes a plate, and piles it with petit fours, tartlets, mini cupcakes, and strawberries dipped in chocolate. Handing it to Logan, she grabs a second, and loads up on cream puffs, bite-sized cheesecakes, and macarons.

"I see your appetite remains bottomless." 

"Have to keep my energy up."

"For what? You caught the bad guy."

"Negotiations." She smiles over her shoulder, gives him an exaggerated wink, and he forgets how to breathe.

She reaches for a third plate, and carefully balances several desserts consisting of cake and cream, layered in tall shot glasses, and affixed with tiny clear spoons.

"Why don't you grab us some champagne," she points to a nearby table where glasses stand in perfect formation.

Logan retrieves two drinks, his jacket from the chair he draped it over earlier, and meets with Veronica and her travelling bakery at the bridal table.

She pats the space next to her, and he eyes it dubiously.

"What?" She finishes chewing, swallows. "Have a seat."

"You're asking me to sit on a gold, leather throne, Veronica." He scrunches up his nose. "Imagine if the press got ahold of photos."

Her eyes crinkle. "Pretty hideous, huh?"

"You could say that." He nudges her fluffy dress out of the way, tucking it against her leg, and lowers himself next to her. "Lilly would have adored it."

The seat is stiff, and the back is too high for stretching out his arm. He makes the best of it, crossing his legs and slouching.

"So... you mentioned drug trafficking?"

"Yeah, a synthetic amphetamine-like stimulant called Glitz."

"Never heard of it."

"You wouldn't have. It's not in wide circulation, due to the cost." Veronica bites into a mini cheesecake and her eyes roll back into her head. "Mmmm. Delicious. So far, it's sent a few-dozen rich kids to the ER, has triggered heart attacks when mixed with other drugs, and has been linked to suicides and rapes."

"So, the profit margin is high?"

"Very. We knew Boralli's Catering was putting the stuff off the streets, but they were merely the distributors. We surveilled them for months - as a company and individually - but never could determine how they were getting the product."

She tastes a petit-four, white with a purple lattice design, makes a little sound of pleasure and holds the other half up to his lips, as if mere days had passed since last feeding him.

Logan accepts the offering - biting into yellow cake, and custard and strawberry jam. "That's good." Surveying her plates, he picks one out for her - chocolate with curled shavings - and returns the favor.

She smiles with her eyes as she chews, and it speaks to him of satisfaction. The simple pleasure of things going back to the way they're supposed to be.

"The second catering van," he says, and Veronica snaps to attention.

He explains. "There were two vans out by the loading dock when I arrived. It seemed a little unusual for an off-site caterer to bring pans _out_ of the hotel - at least before dinner. And why two vans when they could just load the empties back into the first after the food had been unpacked?"

"Nice catch. That's exactly how they did it," She gives him a wistful glance. "We could've made a hell of an investigative team."

"Could've? We're not dead, yet, Veronica."

"No." She pulls his arm around her shoulders, leaning into his side. "We're definitely not."

She offers him half of her chocolate covered-strawberry, and he dutifully opens his mouth to accept.

"Once we realized the transfer was happening 'on the job', we tried to infiltrate the catering company. No dice. Not hiring. We tried to contract them for events, but they were always supposedly booked. Months in advance."

"So, the catering side of the business was legitimate..." He gestures to the food. "...but they weren't accepting new clients?"

"Right. We surveilled their jobs - weddings for the most part, or the occasional high society event. The only commonality, was that they were all coordinated by Lenore Weston." She samples a macaron, lifts a nostril in distaste, and moves on to a tart.

"Ahhh...so that rare-and-radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore, is actually Heisenberg?"

She considers it. "No, Lenore's more of a Gustavo Fring for the champagne and caviar crowd. She set up her chemist brother in a lab, and uses weddings to move the product."

"Wouldn't the DEA handle this kind of thing?"

Veronica shakes her head. "I meet with my DEA contact weekly, and as long as supply and demand for the product remains relatively low, they're good with us taking lead on it."

"Who is _'US'?_ "

She gestures toward the dance floor, where guests are spastically flailing to _'Play That Funky Music White Boy'._ "Most of these idiots are Narcotics. Oliver, Captain Adams, and myself are Special Investigations, so we catch serial crimes, or any cases involving outside agencies. Like the DEA."

Logan sips his champagne. "How exactly did they convince you to play the bride in this scenario. Seems like something you'd be violently opposed to."

"Process of elimination. I'm actually the _third_ bride. Lenore referred the first two to other wedding planners. Claimed she catered to a niche clientele - extravagant tastes with even more extravagant budgets."

"Allowing her to steer clients to her caterer-of-choice," Logan says.

"Yes, and the Sapphire Hotel. We'd overlooked the hotel's involvement, until she kept urging me to book here."

"How does the hotel come in?"

"The weekend-manager and a few members of the staff. They sang like the proverbial canaries. Apparently, Lenore books a room the night before one of her _special_ weddings. She checks-in with a matched-set of designer luggage, and then goes shopping at the nearby boutiques."

"Because her bags are filled with the drugs instead of clothing?"

"Exactly. A few hours before the event, she requests room-service with a code word. The hand-selected kitchen employee stashes catering pans under the tablecloth of the food cart. Up in the room, the pans get loaded with Glitz, and wheeled back to the kitchen where they're stashed in a specific location for the catering staff to transport off-site. That's why Captain Adams - the maid of honor - dragged me away from you, earlier."

"Which of the dozen-or-so times?"

She laughs, points. "Over by the bar. She'd gotten word that the vans had been secured about a block away from here. Once we had custody of the product, half of the catering staff, and the hotel conspirators, all that remained were three caterers left behind to serve dessert. And Lenore Weston."

"And, of course, that went off without a hitch."

Veronica picks up a mini-cupcake, offering Logan the first taste. He opens his mouth, but at the last second, she boops him on the tip of the nose with the frosting.

"Mature, Mars." He steals her napkin, amused, but readying his best exasperated scowl.

"I'm sorry. I don't know what came over me." Veronica's chest shakes from laughter. "Yes, I do. That was the only part of the wedding I was really looking forward to. Smashing baked-goods into Oliver's stupid face."

"My face is neither stupid, nor Oliver's."  Logan tugs the cupcake out her hand. He bats away her protesting hands, presses the frosting onto her left cheek, and gives it a little twist. "Now we're even."

Her jaw drops open. "I only got you a little bit!" She makes a pinch gesture with her thumb and finger, while scanning her plate for more ammunition.

Logan pulls both her hands to his chest. "Truce?"

Her eyes twinkle as she pretends to consider. "For now. But when you least expect it, Echolls...I'll be there."

"God, I hope so." He cradles her jaw between his hands, clearing frosting off her cheek with a swipe of his right thumb.

Her tongue flicks out, licking it clean before he has the chance to.

He inhales sharply, meeting her eyes.

Veronica's lips part, and her pupils dilate. She inches closer, and Logan's heartbeat jumps in his throat.

"Who's your friend, Veronica?" Two undercover bridesmaids approach the table, plates in hand.

Veronica groans. "Hey guys. Maybe we can catch up on Monday?" She smiles tightly, not-so-subtly waving them off.

One of the women seems taken aback by the dismissal, but the other leans in, whispers, and they make arrangements to get-together for coffee after the weekend.

"Sorry about that," she says, once they're out of earshot.

"Not a problem," he says, but the spell has been broken. He picks up his banana pudding, stirring it with the plastic spoon, and takes a bite. "The part that doesn't make sense is the civilians. Your dad, Wallace, Mac. They knew, right?"

"That the wedding was fake? Yeah. My dad's convinced I'm sleeping with Oliver, though. No matter how much I deny it, he thinks it's a case of me protesting too much."

Logan raises a brow.

"For the record, I'm not. Never have, and never will."

"Good to know. Guess that's one explanation for your father's anxiety earlier."

Veronica sighs. "He wasn't even supposed to know about this. The plan was to marry under a fake name. Sergeant Roberts was supposed to play my father."

"What went wrong?"

"The catering manager turned out to be Stuart Cobbler. I didn't realize I knew him until I saw a photo, but he graduated from Neptune with us, and would definitely recognize my father and closest friends."

It's like being gut-punched. Fire rips through Logan's lungs and his entire body goes still.

"Logan? What's wrong?"

He clutches her shoulder. "He was here? Stu Cobbler?"

"You should know. I hear you did a pretty impressive job of body-slamming him."

"That guy? I remembered him from high school, but I thought I heard Raise-the-Roof Brad calling him Cabo."

"Brad is a mush-mouthed douche." Her eyes narrow. "Why? How is this important to you?"

He swallows. "Carrie."

Veronica's face softens, and her voice gentles. "Do you want to talk about it?"

Nine years ago, he would've dodged the question - discussing another woman with Veronica Mars is just asking for trouble. But they say doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results is the definition of insanity. Maybe he'll try having a little faith for once.

"Carrie never really recovered from her best friend's death."

"Susan Knight? I remember how devoted they were to each other," Veronica says. "Didn't I read that Susan died in some kind of boating accident?"

"She OD'd. On Carrie's dad's yacht."

"So, Carrie was there when it happened?

Logan nods. "She wanted to get Susan life-flighted to the hospital, but their dealer - Stu Cobbler, incidentally - somehow convinced them all that she just needed to sleep off the drugs, and she'd be fine."

"And then she died. That must've traumatized Carrie."

He picks up his champagne glass, traces the rim with his pointer finger. "Yeah. The one time I asked her about it, she went fetal and wouldn't talk to me for the rest of the night. Dick ended up filling me in."

"Dick was there, too?"

"Yeah."

Logan repeats the story as told to him. How Dick - who'd passed-out drunk on the deck earlier that evening - woke sometime around dawn to find Carrie, Gia Goodman, and Luke Haldeman tying Susan's body to the boat's anchor. How in their stoned and paranoid state, Stu Cobbler had brainwashed them into thinking they'd be arrested for her death, and how (to add insult to injury) Dick caught the asshole recording the others with his cell, intending to make a blackmail tape.

Somehow, Dick had managed to talk them off the ledge, convincing them that they'd never serve time. Cobb's phone got tossed into the ocean, and Susan's death was ruled accidental.

"I never thought I'd say this, but...yay, Dick?"

He tilts his head, lifting a brow. "Are you sure you've never said that? Cause I..."

Veronica elbows him, rolling her eyes.

He grins, but it falters and slips. "Carrie was never really the same. She put on a good show. Managed to convince me that we were happy and in love for a while, but the act proved to be too much. I tried to give her a normal life. To be enough for her. But the drug use escalated from recreational to chronic."

Veronica squeezes his hand, her eyes reflecting his own pain.

"She blamed herself for not calling 911, for convincing Susan to come out that night, for Cobb being there. She blamed herself for _everything_. But I blamed that fucker, Cobbler. If it wasn't for him, she might still be alive."

"And you'd still be together."

"No." He looks down at her. "No. We weren't together when she died. I was more like a sponsor for her toward the end. My feelings for her turned into something more fraternal. She was my family. Sometimes, my best friend, but not my girlfriend."

"I Helped her get clean and into rehab. She was doing great, and then I deployed again." He drains his champagne glass, exhales. "She'd check-in with me almost daily, and was optimistic about the future. She'd even met somebody new. Then a few days before I was due home, the emails just stopped. I'm sure you know the rest."

"I am so sorry, Logan."

"Thank you." He swallows and stares at the ceiling, waits for the nausea to pass.

"Hey." Veronica pauses until he meets her eyes. "How does it feel having avenged her?"

"Huh?"

"We all thought Cobbler had left the premises. He was safe and home-free in his little hidey-hole. Who would ever think to search there? But he's in custody now, facing a long prison sentence. All because of you. And you even got in a few shots at him."

Logan can't put a name to the emotion that floods through him, but his rib cage seems to loosen, his breath comes easier, and the lead weight in his belly lifts. "Veronica Mars, are you trying to tell me I was a hero?"

"You always were. At least to me."

He laughs it off, prepares to remind her of the times he fucked up, hurt her, ruined everything, but the intensity in her eyes tells him she believes her own lie.

"Hey," He touches her cheek. "I'm sorry about taking that detour to Downerville. I'm not usually so morose."

"S'okay. You're surprised and overwhelmed. I understand." She glances at her remaining food, curls her lip, and sighs. "I think I'm stuffed."

"Shocking."

She pushes to her feet and holds out her hand. "More bubbly?"

"Sure." He rises, and allows her to pull him toward the champagne table.

"That's weird," Veronica points to the dance floor, where Oliver and Natalie sway slowly to some version of _'To Make You Feel My Love'._ "They look almost romantic dancing together."

"You're kidding, right?"

She stops, turning to him. "Is that a problem?"

"No. I just can't believe you're surprised."

She stares blankly.

Logan grins and gestures to the pair. "Natalie loves Oliver, but is convinced he only sees her as 'one of the guys'. And while Oliver does a much better job presenting himself as a Casanova than as a loving bridegroom, he practically burst a blood vessel when he saw me hanging out with Natalie. Went so far as to initiate a dick-measuring contest."

"Which I'm sure you were too mature to participate in."

"Of course, I was. Why bring a canon to a Derringer fight?"

Her eyes drop to his crotch and he digs his nails into his palms to keep from adjusting himself.

"So..." Her lower lip bends down. "You just happened to pick all this up in a single evening?"

"You really don't do the girl talk thing, do you?" he asks.

"No, but apparently, you do."  They walk quietly for a few seconds before Veronica speaks again. "So, you're... _supportive_ of an Oliver and Natalie romance?"

He shrugs. "She can do much better, but the heart wants what the heart wants."

She gives him the side-eye, slanting her jaw. "Better, how?"

"Is there something you'd like to ask, Veronica?"

"No. What would I want to ask?" She makes her patented _definitely-wants-to-ask_ face.

"Okay."

"You weren't tempted to hookup with her? I saw you two laughing together, and with you both being dateless..."

 _And there it is._ A smile tugs at his lips. "Natalie is gorgeous."

"Clearly."

"Intelligent. Interesting. Funny."

"Yep. All of those things." Her face is blank, but she nods about five times too many.

"Veronica?"

"Huh?"

"You have to know by now..." He waits until she meets his eyes to continue. "Ten years ago. Today. Twenty years in the future. You only have to crook your finger."

Veronica drops his hand, and he takes two extra more before stopping and turning around.

She backs up, until she's outlined in one of the alcove doorways. Lifting her hand, she beckons to him.

A joyful laugh bubbles up from his chest. He moves toward her, stretching the moment out with a deliberately unhurried pace.

She counters with a challenging arch of the brow. Takes a few more backward steps.

Logan holds her gaze, grins, and - adrenaline racing through his veins - slows to a prowl.

She's on the third step of the spiral staircase when he catches up. He captures her by the back of the thighs, pulling her tight against his body. "You summoned?"

"Hi." She stares down at him, starry-eyed and breathless.

"Hey."

He rises up on his toes and, without hesitation, takes her mouth.

She freezes for a mere second, then her lips soften and open for him.

Taking his time, Logan savors the exploration and rediscovery of her champagne-and-chocolate mouth. The glide of her tongue against his and the way her hands wind through his hair, pulling him closer, deepening and intensifying the kiss.

He pushes up one step, sliding his hands over her ass (or the dozen layers of fabric covering it) dipping and aligning their hips.

Veronica tilts her head sideways, and pulls his face to her neck. She sighs, breathy and aroused, as he drops soft kisses along the smooth column of her throat.

Voices approach from behind, and Logan jumps back.

"And here I thought I'd have a few weeks to come to grips with the idea of...this." A resigned Keith Mars gestures to the pair.

"Dad!" Veronica presses her hands to her hips, facing down her father as if he's committed serious breach of privacy.

Deep in conversation, Mac and Wallace step through the open doorway behind Keith, stopping short.

"Really? Again?" Wallace's lips pinch tight. He gives Veronica a disappointed head shake and slaps a twenty into to Mac's palm. "Don't you two ever learn?"

"Sure, we do." Veronica descends the three stairs, inserting herself between Logan and her friends. "The old me would've let Logan walk out of here with the wrong idea, figuring I had all the time in the world to explain."

"The old me would've done something stupid and unforgiveable before hearing her explanation." Logan places his hands on her shoulders.

She smiles up at him. "See? Feels like learning the me."

"Veronica..." Keith speaks in a low tone.

"No. Don't." She holds up a hand, pushing her shoulders back and raising to her full height. "I'm an adult, and I'll date whomever I damn well please. You guys can enjoy the rest of my wedding – do a little dance, make a little love, get down tonight – or you can leave."

Logan fiddles with his cufflinks while Veronica and her father face-off.

Keith sighs. "Logan, we'll talk more when you come for dinner."

"Dad..." Veronica warns, "I will not let you interrogate him."

"I'll see you when you come for dinner," Keith repeats. It's neither question nor invitation, it's a demand.

"Sure thing, Mr. Mars."

Keith tilts his head toward the doorway, making a  _go-on-get-out-of-here_ gesture.

"Great seeing you again, Mac," Logan calls over his shoulder as Veronica drags him away. "Wallace."

Veronica doesn't pause in the ballroom, but pulls him out into the foyer.

The fountain is a new addition, but otherwise, the wide corridor hasn't changed much in the passing years. A handful of place cards still wait for their neglectful owners on a wall-hugging table, and two elevators still retain their original brass doors.

Logan's observations pretty much end there, as Veronica turns back, wraps her arms around his neck, and crushes her lips against his.

Logan lifts her off her feet, whirls her around, and presses her against the opposite wall, next to the elevator bank. She clings to him like the building is on fire and his mouth is her oxygen mask.

Feminine shrieks erupt from the ballroom down the way, and Veronica pulls back, chuckling. "Sounds like somebody just caught a bouquet."

Logan gestures at the Marquesa room. "Do you need to go back in there and toss yours?"

She shakes her head. "Mine has that hidden-surprise center. Although, if I was feeling ornerier, I might try aiming for Brad's marriage-starved girlfriend, Maria. Just for giggles."

"That's one way to get a guy to the altar."

Veronica snaps the blue garter, still wrapped around Logan's bicep. "Looks like we have a matched-set here."

"Guess we do." He skims his fingers down her jawline.

She kisses him again, eventually easing him around so that it's his back against the wall. "Strangely enough...that super-platinum wedding package Lenore extorted from the department just happened to include a bridal suite for the night."

"Yet another kickback."

"Probably." Veronica bites her lip and looks up at him. "It's a lot of room for just one girl."

_Damn, things are moving fast._

"We don't have to do that, Veronica." Logan dips his knees and searches her eyes. "I'm good with just going someplace and talking for hours. Before we rush into anything, maybe we should find out if those parts of me that used to drive you crazy **_still_** drive you crazy."

Veronica wraps her hand around the bulge in his pants, glancing up, as if putting thought into her evaluation. "Yep, Feeling crazier by the second."

"FUCK!" Logan throws out his arm, slapping blindly at the wall until he hits the elevator button.

Veronica finds this amusing, and though he tries to kiss away her laughter, he ends up giggling along with her.

 ** _Ding_** **.**

The doors open and, for old time's sake, Logan twirls Veronica through the opening. He maneuvers her into the back corner, lifts her slightly onto the railing, and presses his hips against hers. She tilts her head, and he returns to his previously-interrupted exploration of her neck, her pulse, her sun kissed bare shoulder.

"Unless you're going to the sixth floor, you might want to press a button." The voice is creaky, almost froglike, and they jump apart with an embarrassed start.

An elderly woman stands by the elevator panel, shorter than Veronica by several inches and clothed head-to-toe in gold sequins. Her mass of gray hair is pinned up loosely, like one of those old Gibson Girls, and fringed gold earrings dangle nearly to her shoulders.

"Sorry about that." Logan shifts his suit jacket to cover his erection, and turns around.

The needle on the floor indicator points somewhere between two and three. "Which floor are we going to? Penthouse?"

Veronica's expression lingers on the cusp between embarrassment and amusement.

"The bridal suite?" he prompts.

"Ummm..." Her lips twitch. "It's actually one of the bungalows out on the beach,"

"Then why are we in the elevator?"

She gives him a helpless shrug. "You pushed the button, and I was enjoying myself too much to think clearly."

"Who can blame you with this delicious piece of man-meat?" Granny Sparkles interjects.

Veronica's eyes grow comically wide.

Logan smirks. "You catch that?" He gestures to the large ribbon-wrapped bouquet clutched between the woman's red-taloned fingers.

She snorts. "Had to fight-off some six-foot-tall bridesmaid for it. They always underestimate us petite ladies."

"Amen," Veronica says.

Granny's eyes sweep over Logan, lingering on his pecs and biceps. "Have you ever thought about acting?"

"Me?" He holds a hand to his chest. "I've managed to avoid those thoughts so far."

"Not _real_ acting, of course, but you could do Action movies. Wouldn't take much. Oil up those muscles, perform some stunts, and throw out an occasional one-liner."

Logan's mouth goes slack.

"You have the look of a Hollywood star."

"I can't imagine why."

She ignores his sarcasm. "It's hard to break into the business without connections, but my son-in-law just happens to be Clint Eastwood's accountant. A little mutual back-scratching, and..." She winks.

"Am I not standing here?" Veronica mutters.

Logan bites the inside of his cheek. "As irresistible as your offer is, I'm going to have to say no."

"Your loss. Guess the missus is sapping up your stamina." She gestures as if she's spanking Logan's ass, and Veronica presses her face into his shoulder.

The elevator settles, dings, and opens on the sixth floor. "Congratulations on your marriage," Granny Sparkles says, as she exits.

Logan calls after her. "I'm not the groom."

She turns back, covering her mouth, while her eyes sparkle with delight. "Tear him up, girl." she winks and does a hip thrust that would be raunchy on Dick Casablancas, let alone somebody's grandmother. Then she disappears down the long hall.

"So... that just happened."

"Yeah," Veronica says. "It really did."

~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Only the bungalow's roof is visible from the beach below. A large, private terrace conceals most of the structure from public view.

They try kissing their way up a tall, wooden, staircase, but it proves impossible to accomplish without stepping on her dress. Instead, Logan sweeps her into her arms, carrying her the rest of the way up.

Before them, his other love - the Pacific - stretches out for eons. A glow of moonlight spreads across the water and he gives an appreciative whistle. Even after spending months shipboard, he never quite loses his awe for the ocean.

The front of the bungalow is made almost entirely of glass. Inside, glowing wall sconces reveal a living room through the French doors on the left, and a master bedroom through the pair on the right. Logan moves toward the latter, skirting an outdoor spa tub that could easily hold ten people (or one very enthusiastic couple who hasn't gotten slippery together for a decade).

_Tempting, but not what I have in mind at the moment._

"You can put me down now," Veronica says.

"And miss the opportunity to carry you over the threshold? Not a chance." He kisses her nose.

She rolls her eyes. "You're not the groom."

"And yet who's got the bride, huh?" He bobs his brows once. "Anyway, if the bride trips on the threshold, it's bad luck for the relationship."

"Oliver will be devastated."

"What does he have to do with anything?" Logan turns the knob, pushing open both doors.

He steps inside, instinctively flicking a switch to his right. Blue flames leap from a corner fireplace, fading to a pleasant yellow, bright enough to negate the need for additional lighting.

"Happy, now?" Veronica asks.

"Getting there." He leaves the doors open, allowing the ocean breeze to flow through the room. "How about you?"

"Blissful." Her smile doesn't contain an iota of sarcasm and Logan's heart blooms. Blossoms.

_Fuck. I need to touch her._

A ceiling fan turns lazily overhead. Champagne chills in a bucket on one of the bronze, barrel-shaped nightstands, and the bed... _Good Lord, the bed..._

Two swans made of bath towels kiss on a sea of rose petals.

_Nope. Can't do it._

Changing course, he sits sideways on a white leather chaise, securing Veronica's balance on his lap, and covers her with open-mouthed kisses. Her jaw, her neck, her throat. Lips against her smooth skin. Her pulse. Her quickening breath.

She twists, finding his mouth, and they kiss for a millennia. He strokes her lithe body with shaky hands. Her tiny waist, her rib cage, her breasts.

Veronica inhales, kisses him harder, and he slips his fingers inside her neckline, nudging and shimmying the fabric until he manages to free her right breast. Heart thumping, he cups it, relearning its silken texture, its weight. He sweeps his thumb over her nipple, and she moans, he pulls it between his forefinger and thumb, and she gives up on trying to kiss. Her head lolls back onto his shoulder.

His other hand slides over her belly, seeking out the junction of her thighs. She gasps, and he works her right through the fabric with the heel of his hand.

A giant mirror leans against the opposite wall, reflecting the ocean, the flames, and his bride.

Okay, not 'his bride', technically. _A_ bride, who happens to be his, so, close enough. The sight makes his heart stutter.

"Why are you stopping?" Her hips lift, seeking more friction.

Kissing her cheek, he moves her off his lap, kneels down before her, and lifts the hem of her dress.

Great shoes. White, vintage-style, secured with a satin bow. Those can stay for now. White silk hose - _please be stockings!_ \- encases the legs he's been fantasizing about since puberty.

He kisses her inner ankle, and ducks under her hem, swimming through what feels like dozens of layers of fabric.

Parting her legs, he resumes with her shin, working his way up her leg with kisses and caresses. He licks behind her knee, scratches lightly down the back of her thigh, and her legs spread wider, the scent of her arousal sending a jolt straight to his cock.

A wide strip of white lace encircles her right thigh. At almost five inches, it's too big to be a garter. Nor is it attached to her stocking, (although it's held up using the same garter clip). Sweeping his hand around her outer thigh, he freezes when it closes upon something hard.

He tosses the skirts back, cancan-girl-style, and she lets out a surprised laugh, pushing fabric away from her face.

"Um...Veronica?"

"Hmmmm?"

"Don't take this the wrong way, but..." He bites his lip to keep from laughing. "While your thigh holster is ridiculously hot, you should give a guy a little warning so he doesn't shoot his face off."

"Shit!" She covers her face. "I forgot about that. Sorry."

"S'Okay." He pulls her hands away, handing her the gun, butt first. "If it helps, I can't think of a better way to go."

She laughs, gently placing it on a side table. "I'll keep that in mind."

Logan sits back on his heels taking in the spectacle previously hidden by her dress. The shoes, white stockings, several inches of creamy thighs, and one of those garter belts he's only seen on Victoria's Secret models. Like an itty bitty mini skirt, revealing only the smallest glimpse of the white lace underneath.

"Oh. My. God." There's a reverent note to his voice that - while unintended - accurately describes how he's feeling.

"This isn't..." Veronica's face flushes. "It's not like I planned to get laid, or anything."

"Trust me. You're going to."

"It's just...I couldn't wear full hose with a thigh holster. Or at least not if I needed to use the restroom. And then, Oliver is just jackass enough to go off script, so..." she flounces up the garter skirt and it falls back into place. "I wanted to minimize what he could see."

"As somebody who's been under your skirt tonight, I can assure you, he didn't see anything."

_N_ _ot that he doesn't deserve to be punched._

Veronica lets out a relieved puff of air.

"But back to this..."

He spreads her wider, forcing the little skirt to lift. Leaning forward, he palms her center while tracing a straining inner thigh muscle with his tongue.

Veronica's breathing quickens, and she fights to keep her hips down.

He manages to unhook the garters without damaging them in his haste, and shimmies the lace underwear down her legs and over her feet. He shrugs out of his jacket, and hangs it on the nearest doorknob.

Veronica is reclining back on her elbows, eyes closed and lips slightly parted, one breast exposed. He rubs a thumb over the nipple, and her eyes open.

"Hey. Turn sideways."

The chaise lounge is shaped to cradle the body - like a lazy 'S'. Logan moves to the foot, kneels, and tugs Veronica's hips up to the top of the knee-curve, where she can watch without having to strain her neck.

Nudging her knees apart, he presses them down with his shoulders. He spreads her folds with two fingers, and there she is, drenched and glistening, like something out of a dream.

All his plans for a little finesse - a little teasing - fizzle out. He presses his face to her - mouth, nose, chin - whatever, he doesn't give a fuck. She tastes like fucking nectar of the gods, and he would happily spend the rest of his life lapping her up.

He's everywhere - tonguing at her entrance, pulling at her flesh with his lips, circling her clit.

Her breathing grows ragged, but her thighs are taut with tension.

"Veronica." Logan lifts his head, catching her white-knuckling the furniture. "This is me. Your participation is both welcome and desired."

She stares at him, chest rising and falling.

"Remember?" He smiles, strokes the corded muscle of her thigh with his thumb.

Something dangerous flashes in her eyes, and then her hand is his hair, dragging him back to her sex. Her legs wrap around his head, her hips lift, and she undulates against his tongue.

_God, yes._

Ribbons tickle the back of his neck. He slides two fingers inside her, searching out the subtle texture change, and Veronica bucks harder.

Her gasps and moans become louder and more frequent. Logan pumps his fingers, and sucks at her clit until she lets out a wild, euphoric cry, and her legs collapse.

He licks her clean with a gentle tongue, and scoots back to the side of the chaise.

Veronica's forearm covers her eyes, and he almost worries until he sees the laughter rumbling through her chest.

"What?"

"You." She removes the arm, and grins at him. "I forgot. How...enthusiastic...you are about doing that."

"Is that a problem?"

"Yeah." She pouts. "When you're out of my life. When I have to go nine years in between—"

She breaks off with an "Ahhhh." as he pulls her nipple into his mouth.

He squeezes her other breast, but can't manage to free it from the tight bodice.

"Let's get you out of this thing," he says,

Veronica shifts around in the chaise, and leans forward, allowing him to slip in behind her.

Fifty or so tiny, covered buttons march up her spine. He groans and sets to work.

After the first dozen, he trails off.

"Logan?"

He lets out a faint snore.

"LOGAN?"

He snickers, and kisses the nape of her neck. "I have to say, when I imagined peeling you out of a wedding dress, drug stings and parkour never crossed my mind."

"You imagined this?" She peeks over her shoulder, her scoffing expression not quite matching her twinkling eyes. "Unusual fodder for a spank bank."

"Consider it more of a life bank. Or an end game of sorts. But if I'd known I would have to deal with all of these buttons..." He exhales an aggrieved sigh. "Do a guy a favor and get a zipper next time."

"Next time?"

He nips at her shoulder. Kisses up her neck to the back of her ear. "You scared the shit out me, tonight. Don't think I'm ever letting you out of my sight again."

"Hey," she shifts sideways, and touches his cheek. "I was never really in any danger. I had my gun and my Taser-bouquet. And if that failed, you were there, ready to pounce."

"I know that." He swallows. "I'm referring to when I thought I'd lost my chance with you forever. That I'd never get to be with you again. Never get to..."

Veronica's eyes grow soft and she presses a tender kiss to his mouth. When she pulls back, she says, "I'm never getting married."

"Okay." He resumes his work on the buttons, kissing each inch of skin he bares.

"But...if I ever completely lost my mind and decided to go for it, there was this sheath dress. Matte white. No sheen. Simple, yet complex. No beads or lace or anything. The detail was in the draping. Kind of a Grecian flavor to it."

"Suitable pick for a girl named Mars."

Old Veronica would have reminded him that Mars was a Roman god, but she just smiles. "I do remember there being a formidable number of buttons."

"I'll work on my endurance." He pulls her hips snug, to get a better angle on her back. "Just in case."

"The colors would have to be like Autumn. Blends of green and red and brown and yellow. Simple flowers. A low-key venue. Great music."

"Sounds exactly the way I always imagined it," he says.

"Liar."

"You forget. I've seen your wedding scrapbook." Air quotes. ".... _prop_. You have a pretty specific picture of the wedding you'll never have."

"I just spent months planning my anti-wedding. Don't think I didn't walk away from the experience with a clear handle on my own preferences."

"Makes sense."

"Mac and Wallace would be in the wedding party, of course. And Natalie. But NOT Bridget. I love the captain, but never again."

Ten buttons left to go. "I agree. No invite for Bridget. She cock-blocked us every time we tried to have a conversation."

"I'd let them choose their own dresses. Something they could use again."

"Considerate, as always. Wallace will appreciate it."

"You would have to wear a white jacket, though. With a black bowtie. Like at Alterna Prom, except this time, I could ogle you unashamedly." She meets his eyes with a sort of forced casualness. "No baggage. No absentee girlfriends."

Because of course she'd want input into everything. Why had he ignored his instincts earlier?

He kisses her temple. "I've gotten kind of used to wearing white. So, if you ever do completely lose your mind, the Bogart tux is doable."

She lets out a little sound - something between a growl and a purr - that goes straight to his groin. Gives him a wicked glance over her shoulder. "Speaking of doable...why don't you show me what you're hiding under those clothes?"

"You first." Logan undoes the final button and stands, pulling her up next to him and giving her a quick kiss. Considering the amount of fabric, removing the dress over-the-head would be a recipe for disaster. Instead, he lowers it to the floor, offering Veronica a steadying arm as she steps out.

A wooden hanger dangles from the crown molding of a tall armoire. Logan fishes out the dress' hanging loops and places them in the designated notches, straightening and smoothing the fabric.

He turns around as Veronica's bra falls to the floor. She's removed her shoes, and the lace holster, and now wears only her stockings and that tiny garter skirt.

_Fuck. Me._

Logan tugs off his tie, and manages to get three buttons undone, and then Veronica's there, working at his belt buckle.

He yanks the half-buttoned shirt over his head, while she kneels and drags his pants to his feet.

He's naked in under 30 seconds, with his cock wrapped in her fist.

He moans. "Can't. Won't last."

She swirls her tongue over the tip, and he almost screams.

"Come here." He slides three fingers under her jaw, gently nudging her to look at him. "Save that for later."

Veronica takes him entirely in her mouth. He throws back his head squeezing every muscle in his body to keep from exploding as she drags her lips down his length with excruciating slowness.

When he opens his eyes, she's standing before him, a smug grin quirking one side of her mouth.

_Oh, you will pay for that._

Veronica runs her hands over his pecs, squeezes his bicep, and walks a slow circle around his body. "Love what you've done with the place," she says, tracing a finger down his abs.

"Love what you've done with these." Logan palms her breasts, giving them a quick squeeze.

He moves Veronica's hands from his stomach around to his ass. "What do you think?" He lifts his brows, and flexes his glutes.

"Um...smooth? Rock hard? Nicely exfoliated? What am I supposed to say?"

"That..." He kisses her forehead. "...Is a Grade-A, hill-running, squat conquering, U.S. Navy-trained ass. It is NOT a pancake."

She stares at him uncomprehending, and then her lips pull back, exposing her gums. "I put you at the same table as Greta and Shay, didn't I?"

"You did."

"Oops." Her grip tightens on his butt. "So...what exactly does this military-grade ass bring to the table? Extra thrusting power?" She tugs him closer, belly pressing against his cock.

Logan groans. "You're about to find out." He dips, hoisting her up by the ass, and her arms and legs wrap around him.

He takes two steps, pauses, turns around. "Condom. Where are my pants?"  How did they end up across the room?

Veronica pulls his face back to her. "I'm on the pill. And I'm clean. Have you been...?"

He shakes his head. "I haven't been with anybody since Carrie, and I've tested clean since.  Twice."

She looks skeptical. "That was more than two years ago."

"And I've spent half of that time on a ship. What?"

She crushes her lips to his, putting an end to that discussion. Logan pivots, pressing her to the nearest wall.

Veronica's entire body stiffens, and she rips her mouth away. "Arghhh! Freezing!"

"Right. No glass."

He takes a step back, searching for a spot of wall not occupied by a fireplace, furniture, or textured wall art.

The mirrored dresser is just about the right height. He sets Veronica down, adjusting her so that she's at the edge.

Fingers twisting in his hair, she drags him to her demanding mouth, kissing him hard and rough.

She uses her other hand to position him at her entrance, and Logan pulls back, searching her eyes for...something.

As much as he wants this (needs this). As much as he's craved it for a decade, he's just as terrified to go through with it.

He can't hide his heart from her. Not Veronica. She'll see everything. That despite his newfound maturity, despite the respectable career, the ribbons and medals, deep inside, he's still the same love-starved, needy head-case he always was. Still utterly and completely in love with his high school girlfriend.

And once she sees it, she'll run, leaving him worse-off than he'd be if he'd never reconnected with her.

Veronica stares back. Analyzing. Assessing. She smiles, flirtatious and deadly. "Hey, I'm off work all next week. A little 'thanks-for-disrupting-your-entire-life-for-six-months' bonus time. Unfortunately, I couldn't get the department to spring for a honeymoon vacation in the wedding budget, but...?"

"Cheapskates," Logan gives a sad head shake. "Coincidentally, I don't have to go in to work until Wednesday. Where should we go?"

"Anywhere. You decide. I'll pick next time."

In Veronica-Mars-speak, it's as good as a commitment, and he loves her for it.

He meets her gaze, and slowly eases into her.

She's too tight, too wet, too hot. Too everything. He gasps, and freezes, buying time for his overwhelmed senses to get their shit together.

Exhaling, he withdraws partially and sinks back into her. Withdraws and thrusts. Picks up a rhythm.

He kisses her somewhere near her mouth, presses his forehead to hers, and they both stare down at the near-mesmerizing sight of his cock - glistening and wet - sliding in and out of her. In and out. In. Out.

Her legs are braced around his thighs, her hair smells like sugar, and her little breathy pants are driving him to the brink.

He pulls out a little farther. Slides in a little harder. Farther. Harder.

He palms her breasts, squeezing, tugging at her nipples, and she moans, digging her nails into his back.

She's close - he remembers that sound - so he squeezes her ass, hauling her tight against him, and adds a little dip to his hips, stimulating her clit as he rocks up into her.

He distracts himself from his own need by focusing on her. Her fingertips digging into his skin. Her jagged breaths. Her sweat-slicked body. Her...her...

Her head dropping back.

Her body going rigid.

Her inner walls constricting and contracting around his cock.

He licks salt from her exposed throat. Kisses her forehead, eyelids, nose, chin. Strokes her hair.

Veronica's eyes open, take a moment to focus, and then lift to his face. "You didn't..."

"Not yet. I didn't want—"

"Good." She uses her feet to push-off against the dresser, causing Logan to stumble backward. One step. Two. They fall back onto the bed.

Rose petals bounce and settle.

Veronica straddles him, plants her hands on either side of his head, and lowers herself onto his erection.

"Fuck..."

She rides him, and he lifts up, kissing her sloppily, until gravity brings him back down.

Her hips change to a rolling motion, her breasts sway above him, and he captures them, kneading and squeezing. Tonguing the sensitive areas and sucking her nipples when she leans close enough. Greedy, kittenish sounds come from her throat.

She sits up abruptly, wags her finger at him, and redirects his hands so that they're under his head.

Logan grins. "I see. You're in charge, huh?"

"Yes. Don't forget it."

She shifts, planting her feet outside his hips, and lowering herself down.

He can't remember ever doing this position with her, and rather than bracing her weight on his chest or legs, she holds her knees and bounces.

"FUCK!"

Her lips twist into a smirk, and her eyes gleam with a prideful challenge.

There's a message here, if his sex-addled brain is willing to decipher.

She takes him deep and he gasps.

When they first started getting naked together at the Grand, she knew missionary position and a could deliver an enthusiastic handjob. But - like everything with Veronica - she was eager to learn and quick to master anything he could teach. By the time they ended for good, she could - and regularly did - fuck him mindless.

He's not delusional. Of course, she's been with other men. She's learned new things.

He inventories his emotions, but finds no signs of jealousy. No sadness or possessiveness. Mostly, he just gets it. She's declaring herself his sexual equal. She doesn't have to - as far as he's concerned, she always has been - but if that's what she needs, he supports it one-hundred percent.

"I see the student has become the master."

Veronica winks, and does some kind of swivel thing with her hips that makes him whimper.

He crosses his arms under his head. "Teach me everything you know. I am your willing pupil."

Her grin stretches wide, wider, blinding, and he feels their connection expand in an entirely new direction.

"How long have you been waiting to show me this?"

Her nose scrunches up in that way it does when she's about to deny something obvious, but she rolls her eyes instead, and says, "Years."

"Consider me impressed," he says. "And a bit intimidated by your thigh strength."

"I could crush your head, like grape," she says in her vaguely Germanic accent.

"Again, there's no better way to die."

Veronica's tits bounce, and she's spread wide open, and as long as he's known her, she's never been sexier.

"Please," he begs. "Let me fuck you."

She thinks about it. "Okay."

He thrusts up into her before she even gets the second syllable out.

"Ohhhhh" She sighs, and then his hands are on her hips pulling her down as he drives up. Lifts her. Pulls her down.

She shifts her knees down to the mattress, leans on his chest for leverage, and picks up his pace. Meeting him halfway with equal fervor.

"Fuck Veronica."

Releasing her hips, he reaches between them, seeking her clit, and circling it with the tips of his fingers.

Bodies stretched taut, they move together, amidst squeaking bedsprings, slapping flesh, and forced exhales.

"Can't." He chokes out.

She squeezes down on him, and he just has time to pinch her clit, before everything flashes white. She spasms around his cock and he goes with her.

All the way.

Life force and all.

Deceased.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Thirty days later, Logan realizes he's not dead. Or several minutes. Who knows? Time is relative.

A glass clinks against the table. A wet finger traces his lips.

"Y'okay there, big guy?"

He cracks an eyelid.

Veronica's exchanged her lingerie for an oversized tee-shirt. She leans over him, face scrubbed-clean and hair pulled back in a messy bun.

"Hello." He grins. "You fucked me stupid."

"Excuse me?"

"Brains gone." He knocks twice on his head. "I'm gelatin now."

"Hmmm...Can you still cuddle?"

"I _only_ can cuddle. And maybe jiggle a little."

"Well then, scoot over, Jell-O."

Veronica tugs at the bedding and, Logan shifts his weight enough for her to pull it back. She props up a pillow behind her and grabs the remote from her nightstand.

The flat screen TV above the fireplace turns on, set to the local news.

Logan wiggles close, laying his head on her lap. He zones out to sensation - her fingernails lightly scratching his scalp, the novel, yet achingly familiar scent of her, the texture of her thighs under his thumb.

**_"In local news...wedding guests at San Diego's prestigious Sapphire Hotel were surprised when what they'd assumed was an ordinary reception, turned out to be an undercover drug sting."_ **

"Surprised?" Logan opens his eyes, and lifts a brow. "That's one way to describe it."

The camera switches to local on-the-scene reporter Ann Marler, who stands at the front entrance of the Sapphire.

Beside her, a blonde in a black bandage dress, speaks with upward inflections into the outstretched mic. "It was a shock. I didn't really know anyone, except for my date, but I thought it was a beautiful wedding. Great food. Dessert. Good band. The wedding couple seemed cute."

"When did you first realize something was unusual."

"I didn't. Not until the bride flashed her badge. One minute everything was fine, the next, the wedding planner was attacking the groom with stemware and taking the bride hostage."

"What happened next?"

"Oh, there were guns everywhere. Dozens. Some dude was playing Spiderman up in the ceiling, and the bride was beating up the wedding planner with her bouquet." The girl looks straight in the camera. "She took her down with flowers. Can you believe it?"

The TV switches to footage of Captain Bridget leading Lenore Weston and Stu Cobbler into the police department.

The anchor says more, but Logan doesn't hear it. He chuckles. Then snickers. He meets Veronica's gaze, and a loud snort escapes.

She rolls her eyes, and looks away, a smile playing at the corner of her mouth.

When she looks at him again, they both laugh.

Logan tries to force his features into something serious and dignified, but when he realizes Veronica's doing the same thing, they both explode into laughter, rolling on the bed and giggling like six-year-olds after a fart joke.

Which devolves into attacking each other with rabid bath-towel swans.

After several aborted attempts, he manages to get himself under control. "Life with you is never boring, Mars."

"Then maybe you should stick around this time."

Not bothering to remind her that _she's_ the one who left, he kisses her nose. "I'm planning on it."

"Good."

~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~

"Is this heaven?"

"Yeah, I think so." Logan drinks from the complimentary bottle of champagne, and passes it back to her. Slouched down in the jacuzzi like this, the world consists only of ocean, sky, and Veronica. And what more could he need in life, anyway? "I should bring my realtor here."

"Bored with me already?"

He pulls her up onto his lap, kissing her cheek. "Never. I figure I'll show her this view and then send her off to find me the closest match."

Veronica whistles. "That'll cost you."

"It's worth it." He wraps his arms all the way around her, dropping his chin to her shoulder.

The stars glitter unnaturally bright tonight, and it's almost like being at sea. Except with fifty-percent more bare breasts.

He cups one now. "Did you mean what you said earlier about taking off with me for a honeymoon?"

"Why? Have you picked a destination?"

"Not specifically, but I have an idea what I'm looking for. Give me a few minutes with Google."

"Oh, do tell. White sand beaches? Private plunge pools? Over-water suite with glass floors?"

"All worthy amenities," he says, "But I'm thinking more along the line of crime rates. Or lack of."

"Huh?"

"Let's go somewhere without crime. Or better yet, barely any people. I know what I'm getting into with you, but after watching that woman manhandle you tonight, my heart could use just a few days alone with you without danger or drama."

"Oh, poor Logan." She turns and pats his cheek. "I'm the one who had to worry about you breaking your fool neck earlier, when I should have been trying to escape."

"Sorry 'bout that."

"I think I can live with Safety Vacation, but try not to skimp on the glass floors."

"Your preferences have been noted." He tugs the bottle from her hand and takes a swig. "I do have to wonder why you guys didn't just lure Lenore to the kitchen under some pretext, and arrest her there."

"Logic. I like it." She nods twice. "Blame it on Oliver. The idiot wouldn't just make the arrest. He insisted that after six months planning this wedding, the only satisfying conclusion would be the _gotcha_ moment."

"And _of course,_ Veronica Mars would never hold out for the dramatic denouement." He lightly bites her shoulder. "It wasn't quite _'the butler's son did it',_ but..."

"Hey!" She twists around, straddling his thighs. "I was seventeen back then, and showing off for a boy."

He pushes back a loose tendril of wet hair. "I'm sure Connor Larkin appreciated the effort. Fake abs, or not."

"You know I'm not talking about Connor." She looks down, and back up again. "Even when I hated you Logan, you were still the person I most wanted to impress."

"Mission accomplished."

~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~

**Six Weeks Later**

Cayenne's demanding voice snaps Logan back to the here-and-now. "Well?"

"Well, what?"

She taps a pinkish-tan, regulation-length fingernail against the photo. "Did you, or did you not get married?"

"Not." He snatches the picture back, lifting it to eye-level. "I danced with the bride, but I definitely wasn't the groom."

"Oh."

The only concession to decoration on Logan's desk is a simple silver frame. He lifts it up now, studying the photo inside - himself, Carrie, and Dick, taken at his Bon Voyage dinner the night before his deployment. They'd laughed and reminisced until closing time, happy and optimistic for the future.

Carrie had been four-months sober at the time, and in complete agreement that friendship was a better choice for their relationship than romance. It was the last time he ever saw her alive.

He's kept the picture as a sort of reminder. Atonement. He should've done more. If he hadn't ended things with her. If he'd hired a sober companion for her while he was gone. If he'd stuck around. Could've. Should've. Would've.

The guilt isn't entirely gone, but he's come to grips. He'd done the best he could, he'd given what he had to give, and it's time to let go and move on.

Logan turns over the frame, loosening the fasteners, and pulling away the velvety back. Removing the photo, he hides it in his left desk drawer. In its place, he inserts the new picture of himself and Veronica dancing, closes the backing, and arranges it at one o'clock.

He's studied the image a few-dozen times since receiving it, and as far as he can tell, this was taken at or around the moment when he realized she was still his and always would be.

Cayenne leans in for another look. "You look like you're in love with her."

"For half my life, so far."

"And she married somebody else?" She turns pitying eyes to him. "How're you holding up?  Is there anything I can do for you?"

 _You mean like fuck_ _Veronica_ _out of my system?_   "Nah, I'm good."

"But you must be devastated," she prods.

"Devastated?" He checks his watch and pushes back his chair. "Not really. We just bought a house together, and you could say things have been...blissful."

"But she's..." Cayenne gapes and gestures to the photo.

Logan winks.

She backs away. "I just remembered, I was on my way to the printer. Catch ya later, Mouth."

"Sure thing." Running his thumb over the photo one last time, he stands and gathers his jacket.

He whistles an old tune on the way to his car. He's meeting Veronica for lunch. Followed, hopefully, by 'lunch'.

**End**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much love to CCS, who beta'd various portions of this fic, and is the BEST cheerleader and motivator.


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